


The Horrors of Pennhurst Asylum

by icantwritegood



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Also drugs, also yea dr fear is here, disturbing imagery??, idk when this is set, it's a ricky and tinsley sort of adventure, kinda abusive relationship towards the end, like emotional manipulation and the such, many drugs, ricky/ryan is CRAY, the whole pennhurst thing is really interesting so i decided to just make it the main spooky place, tinsley/shane is uncomfortable, v little actual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:33:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/pseuds/icantwritegood
Summary: Tinsley used to like his job. Solving cases, catching criminals. He was the best of the best.But something is happening. Not to him.To others.Now he might have to trust the one person he'd sworn never to trust.





	1. Enemies With Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> the C.C. Tinsley and Ricky Goldsworth thingy has been on my mind for AAAGES. Obviously Shane is Tinsley and Ryan is Ricky. this shit good good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley is joined by his least favorite individual. Ricky just needs a lift.

Tinsley stood in the doorway for a moment. The bathroom was a bloody mess. Literally.

The man's body was slumped in the corner, minus his head. The PI averted his gaze, but everywhere he looked was just... blood. Streaks of it. Splashes of it. A hand print or two smeared on random surfaces.

He sighed heavily, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him; he had to play his part, after all. Whether he wanted to or not.

The mirror was blank, the cupboards empty. Nothing in them. At least, not what he was looking for. It took him a while to finally locate it; under the sink, stuck to the pipes.

 _Enjoy - G_.

Tinsley crumpled the note in his hand, shoving it deep into his pocket. The murders were always bad, but the notes were always worse.

Straightening up, he pulled on some plastic gloves and began to clean. First, the hand prints. Then the surfaces; the sink, the bathtub, the walls, all of it. He was good at it now. Didn't make it any less uncomfortable, though. The trick was to leave enough blood to be convincing, just not enough to give away who did it. Tinsley caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, stopping to stare for a long moment. He looked tired. He'd looked tired ever since all this started. Being on edge every second of every day did that to a guy. But that's how _he_ liked it.

Turning away from his reflection, he took the bag out of his pocket. In it was a few hairs, that's all he ever needed. About the fingerprints, he always just lied. The cops trusted him, they always had, and he'd never given them reason not to. Or revealed the reason they shouldn't.

Swiftly, he scattered the few hairs on the floor, kicking them around. The dead guy's neighbor was gonna go to jail for a long time. Tinsley tried not to think too hard about it, or about the friendly conversation they'd had only half an hour earlier. The usual thing about getting the address wrong, and all that. No. Stop thinking about it.

He checked over his work thoroughly, apart from the dead guy. Whoever he was, Tinsley didn't care to know. Same thing applied to wherever his head was.

It was getting light by the time he left. Tinsley drove home quickly, avoiding the main streets. He wasn't sure what would be awaiting him this time. There was always a gift of some sort. A thank you, he supposed.

Just another note this time. Stuck to the door of his apartment. _Ditch the tie - G_. Tinsley scowled at it, ripping it off his door and storming into his apartment. Why did the guy even bother signing the notes with 'G'? They both knew the other's name. Did he think it was edgy or something? And he liked this tie, for fuck's sake.

He turned on the kettle, moving to the window and staring out. At the beginning, he had been frightened to stand in his window. Knowing that he was always being watched had gotten surprisingly... normal. He didn't care anymore. Well, there was one thing that hadn't changed.

He was still frightened. Of _him_. 

Goldsworth had him on a tight leash, day in, day out. Tinsley couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a good night's sleep. His phone frequently rang at all hours of the morning, so often he rarely bothered setting an alarm anymore. _Wake up, C.C. Time to play_. And what a game they played.

If he could go back to that night, Tinsley would shoot him right between the eyes. He used to think that he'd hurt him a bit first. Make him feel the fear that he instilled in others. Now he just wanted him dead. Hate and fear were two sides of the same coin, he'd learned. You hate what scares you. You want to kill it. You want it gone.

He'd only ever met Goldsworth the once, in the empty subway station. And it was all because of that chance meeting that they were in the situation they were in. Tinsley couldn't kill him, no matter how much he wanted to. You see, Tinsley had done something bad that night. And Goldsworth had seen every bit of it. 

If Tinsley was going to kill him, he couldn't fuck up. He couldn't risk Goldsworth getting away.

The kettle came to the boil, clicking off. He leisurely made himself a coffee; usually it was tea, but depending on what Goldsworth had left him, he sometimes needed something stronger. After a few sips, he dialled the police chief.

"Tinsley?"

He cleared his throat, turning back to the window. "Yeah, chief. It's me. I got a tip off that something's up at the apartment complex in Livermore.  Apparently a loud argument between some guy and his neighbor. Sounded serious."

"Jesus. Right, I'll send guys right now. Thanks, Tinsley."

"Yeah. Don't mention it." 

He remembered the first time he'd called in a fake report. He'd been terrified, he hadn't had a clue of what to say, or what to do. It was pretty easy, in the end. He was C.C Tinsley, for God's sake. His word was gold.

With that over, it was time to start doing some _actual_ work. Work he got paid for. He sat at his desk, rubbing his tired eyes before opening up the first folder, one of many. It was funny, really, the way he always did his best work after a clean. It woke him up with a good old dose of shock.

Recently, there'd been multiple people ringing him, even coming to his door - concerned mothers, worried fathers, anxious siblings and friends - all coming to him with the same issue; a loved one being oddly uncommunicative in Pennhurst Asylum. They'd sent letters, rang the place, went knocking, all to no avail. They were getting no response, or a vague excuse from the people working at the place. Tinsley read through each report, his coffee growing lukewarm on his desk. 

"Doctor Fear," he read outloud, his tone dry. "Are you kidding me?"

A quick Google search showed that he was not, in fact, being kidded. There was indeed a doctor Fear working at Pennhurst Asylum, and had been for some time. What gave Tinsley an uncomfortable feeling was the lack of information about him. Not even a picture, unlike the other doctors working there.

He shrugged on his coat, heading for the door. A quick visit to the place, and an even quicker chat, was sure to lead him somewhere.

However, when he got into the car, there was already someone waiting for him. He saw him in the rearview mirror, sitting in the back seat like he was a celebrity waiting to be chauffeured to his destination. They were both silent for a moment or two, 

"What are you doing here, Ricky?" said Tinsley after a long while, not taking his eyes from Goldsworth's. Was he afraid? Hell fucking yes. Was he going to show it? Hell fucking no.

"No need for the attitude," said Ricky casually, leaning forwards in his seat so that he could see Tinsley's face more easily. "We are coworkers, after all."

"We are not coworkers. Now answer my question."

"What's this? You've suddenly grown a pair?"

Tinsley turned in his seat, his eyes landing on Ricky's. A chill went through him, like an icicle through his chest. "I want you to leave."

"What you want isn't important, Tinsley. It's what I want that matters."

"What is it? Murdered another guy who looked at you the wrong way?"

A grin spread across the man's face; it was strange, seeing such a sunshine smile on a serial killer's face. "No. Not this time."

Fuck. Was he going to kill him? No, he wouldn't do that in such an open place. Ricky was vicious, yes. Insane, definitely. But he wasn't stupid. Yet he hadn't seen the guy in about a year. Why was he here now, if not for something important?

Tinsley finally looked away, starting the engine. "I have places to be, pal. Things to do. So, if you wouldn't mind."

"You're going to Pennhurst."

A pause. "Yeah. And?"

Ricky clambered into the passenger seat, one hand gripping the PI's shoulder as he did so; Tinsley took a deep breath at the touch, exhaling it loudly. Talking to the guy was just about bearable. Seeing him was worse. But touching was infuriating.

"I'm a bit whack in the head, we both know that," said Goldsworth as he settled into the seat. "But Pennhurst knows it now too. Some records or something from when I was a teenager."

"I can imagine."

"I doubt it. But the asylum wants me in for a few questions, y'know? To see if I'm okay enough to still be out in the normal world."

Tinsley threw him a frown. "And you're going?"

"Oh, I'm going alright." Ricky smiled to himself, a gesture that made Tinsley's skin crawl. "But not to answer any questions."

"Then you can get out."

"Huh? Why?"

"I'm all good with cleaning up after you. That's part of our deal. But I'm not carting you around the place so you can do whatever sick shit you want to do."

Goldsworth raised his eyebrows, as if surprised that the PI was resisting. "I don't think I like this new Tinsley."

The sentence hung in the air, their eyes locked. Tinsley wasn't an idiot. He knew a threat when he heard one.

"What are you going to do?" said the PI quietly, finally pulling out of the parking lot. 

"I'm not sure yet. I like making it up as I go."

"I noticed."

"How'd you like my one last night?"

Tinsley didn't reply for a moment, just kept his eyes on the road. "Is that why you do it? For me?"

"Well, not exactly. I do it because I like it, simple as." Ricky shrugged. "But I suppose I like having an audience of sorts."

The PI shook his head in disgust, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. "Why didn't you just take your own car?"

"It's in for cleaning. Got a bit messy last night."

He could hear the smile in the man's voice. "I hope you fuck up. I hope Pennhurst takes you in for a long, long time. I hope you fucking die there."

He could feel Ricky staring at him, like a hole being burned into the side of his head. "You can hope all you want, but if I do fuck up, you won't be around to find out what happens after."

The rest of the drive was silent.

 

* * *

 

 

The asylum was a pretty building. Red brick, a clock tower, a beautiful front entrance. But the place was doused in misery.

Tinsley stepped out of the car, stopping to take the pen and notebook out of the gap between the two front seats. When he turned back around, Goldsworth was standing barely a foot away. Just staring. He was unexpectedly short, just about coming up to Tinsley's shoulders. This didn't make him any less terrifying, however.

"You go do your thing, and I'll do mine," said Ricky in a quiet voice. "Don't think about ringing your police friends, or I'll-"

"You don't need to describe what you'll do," interrupted the PI, his back pressed against the car door in his subconscious effort to put more space between himself and Goldsworth. "I know."

Ricky slapped him on the shoulder, an almost amicable gesture. "Don't leave without me, yeah?"

Tinsley waited by his car as the man disappeared through the ornate front gates, strolling up to the front entrance like he was just taking a walk through the park. What was he supposed to do? Just wait for the guy to get back? No way. But there was also absolutely no chance he was going to go into the building after him. He'd seen what Ricky could do, and he certainly didn't want to see him in action.

The gardens were quiet. Not just your average quiet. There were no birds singing, no leaves rustling, no sound but for the trickle of water as it sprayed from the large fountain in the center of the garden. It was an old monument, grey stone, covered in moss. Tinsley studied it for a while, hands in his pockets. The trickling water was oddly peaceful.

"Are you okay there?"

Tinsley jumped, whipping around so quickly his coat billowed out around him. "I- Yeah. Yeah, sorry."

A nurse in white stood in the center of the path he'd just walked down. She stood with her arms by her sides, as upright as the trees lining each side of the path behind her. "Are you lost?"

"No." Poor thing. She had no idea what was probably going on in the building beside them right now. He supposed she was lucky, in a way, that she was out here with him instead of in there with Goldsworth. "I was just looking for a doctor Fear?"

She visibly stiffened at the name. "He's busy right now. You'll have to come back another time."

He stared at her, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't quite figure out the cause of. "I couldn't even see him for just a moment or two?"

"No," she replied quickly. "If that's all, you can go."

It wasn't all. "Where's all the patients?"

She blinked at him. "Inside."

"All of them?" He glanced up at the sky; it wasn't exactly a sunny day, but since when did people stay inside just because it was cloudy? "Do they not like the gardens?"

"You have to go."

He frowned at this abrupt response. "I'd like to-"

The loud honking of a car horn made him shut up; it droned on without pause. Ricky was done.

 

* * *

 

 

Tinsley slipped into the driver's seat, not even looking at the man beside him. "I hope you're not expecting me to go and try and cover up whatever shit-"

"Drive. Just fucking drive."

There was urgency in his voice, yes. But not the type that came from a rush of adrenaline. It was the type that came from pure fear. What the fuck would scare Ricky Goldsworth?

Tinsley didn't bother pursuing it. He just obeyed.

Goldsworth didn't speak up until the building had disappeared behind them. "That- What they're doing-"

The PI waited for him to continue. He was curious, of course, but he didn't want to involve himself in whatever the guy had just done. Actually, now that he thought about it, Ricky was oddly... not covered in blood.

"You need to tell the cops."

Tinsley gave him a puzzled frown. "You turning yourself in or something?"

Ricky didn't laugh. "That place is fucked up, Tinsley. I- I walked around a bit first, there was no one there, and they- All the patients are just in their beds, they're all tied down, they're all gagged-"

"What?" The PI turned to stare at the man, to make sure this wasn't just some elaborate joke. "You're just fucking with me."

"I'm not."

The lack of people in the gardens suddenly made sense. "They're all tied up?"

"All of them. Each room is just a shitload of beds all crammed in. It's fucked up. It's fucked up."

"Being a bit hypocritical there, Goldsworth."

"I know what's wrong with what I do. I know why I do it too. But that shit in there..." Ricky was speechless for a moment, as if searching for a word to sum up what he'd seen. "Whoever is running that place is just..."

"Insane? Cruel? Batshit crazy? You're all of them, so don't even try."

"What I saw in there, it didn't seem like it was for any reason. It was just... the way it was."

The tone of his voice made Tinsley's blood drop a few degrees. "And the difference between that and what do is...?"

"I'm not going to explain myself to you, Tinsley." For a moment, the guy looked frightened. Normal. It made Tinsley extremely uncomfortable. "Just drop me off here."

The PI pulled over on the street, unlocking the doors. Ricky got out, closing the door behind him. He joined the other few people strolling around, disappearing down the road, hopefully for another year or so. Tinsley watched for a moment; it was scary, really. How killers just wander among us. 

Goldsworth must have been telling the truth. It would make sense; if the patients were being held like that, there was no way they'd be able to contact family members, hence the growing number of concerned families asking for his help. But why?

What was going on in Pennhurst Asylum?


	2. Strike One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley does a little investigating. Many notes are involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's mention of suicide in this, just in case ppl need to know!

After a few hours of unbroken sleep, Tinsley was back on the case. He felt odd, for some reason. There had been no call from Goldsworth, no text, nothing. Strange, but not exactly unwelcome.

He'd agreed to get to the bottom of things for the few families ringing him. Find out what's happened to their loved ones, and all that. It was half one in the morning, but in his line of work, the time of day wasn't exactly important. He sat at his laptop, the glow agitating his tired eyes. The asylum had a very vague website; their activities weren't what you could call transparent. He could find the list of current patients, but none of past patients. After a while of searching, he finally found out why.

The last time someone had been discharged from Pennhurst Asylum was fifteen years ago. An anonymous person.

He sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin distractedly. The stubble scratched his fingers. He should probably shave, he thought to himself. But the _effort_. It could wait.

His phone began buzzing in his pocket, startling him from his thoughts. An unknown number, which he was pretty used to by now.

"Helllllo?"

There was silence for a moment. "Is this C.C. Tinsley? The private investigator?"

He probably should've opened with that. Oh well. "Yep. Speaking."

"My name is Michael White. I have something that I'd like you to investigate for me, if that's how this works."

"Uh huh. No problem. What is it?" Tinsley reached for his pen, holding his phone between his ear and shoulder as he grabbed a piece of paper.

The man's voice was shaky. "I have a son. In Pennhurst Asylum. He won't reply to my calls."

Tinsley paused, his hand frozen above the paper. "Have you tried visiting?"

"Yes. Multiple times." He could hear tears in the man's voice. "They just keep telling me that I can't. That he's busy. I haven't seen him in two months now. I don't know what's going on. I-"

"I'll take it," said Tinsley straight away. "What's your son's name?"

"Graham. His mother was in Pennhurst for a while too, but nothing like this happened."

His ears pricked up. "She's out?"

"Yeah. For some time now."

"Can I speak with her?" He tried not to sound too eager.

There was a hesitant pause. "We don't talk anymore. She was... different when she came out of that place. It was impossible to live with her. We split up."

"Do you have her current address?" Tinsley scribbled it down, noticing how his hand was shaking ever so slightly. Huh. "Right. I'll get on it."

"How do I pay you? Is it-"

"We can talk about that after I've solved it." For once, Tinsley cared more about the case itself than the money. "I'll update as I go. You never ring me unless it's something very important, okay?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand. Thank you."

 

* * *

 

 

A few hours later, and he was there. It looked like it was abandoned. All the curtains were drawn, there was no car in the driveway, weeds were have a great time in the front garden. Tinsley squinted at the address he'd written down, then at the number on the door of the house. Yes, he was right. This was her house.

He knocked three times, loud and clear. Flakes of dull red paint stuck to knuckles as he did so. He brushed them off on his coat.

"Yes?"

The woman's voice was muffled through the door. He cleared his throat, leaning closer to the source of the voice. "My name is C.C. Tinsley. Can I, uh, speak with you?"

"About what?"

"Your time in Pennhurst Asylum. Just a few questions."

Silence.

"Hello?" 

She didn't respond.

After a few moments of nothing, he stepped back, staring up at the house. She obviously didn't intend to talk to him, that much was clear. He thought about knocking again, his hand hovering a few inches from the door. He didn't want to annoy her, but his curiosity was screaming. He eventually decided against it; it was moments like this that demanded patience more than anything else.

He retreated back down the driveway, hands in his pockets. The road was empty of people, of civilization. He threw a glance back over his shoulder, his eyes landing on a face in the upstairs window. She ducked immediately. The curtains floated back down to hide the room. He stood for a moment, half-turned, watching the window. She didn't reappear.

The short walk back to his car was twice as hard now.

 

* * *

 

 

Another note awaited him on his door.

 _I can help - G_.

Tinsley raised an eyebrow at it. Ricky was obviously crazier than he'd originally thought. He added his own message.

 _Not a chance - C.C_.

He had barely been home for ten minutes when there was a knock at the door. He peered through the peephole, expecting to see Goldsworth himself. But nope, it was an old lady, looking quite anxious.

He opened the door, staring down at her. "Can I help you?"

She shuffled uncomfortably. "Are you C.C. Tinsley? The-"

"-private investigator? Yeah."

"My son-in-law, Michael, he says you're helping him. With Graham."

Tinsley frowned down at her, one hand still on the door. "I can't share that information with you. Rules and stuff."

"No, no. It's fine. I just have something to give you." She took a folded note from her pocket, handing it to him. As if he didn't have enough notes in his life already. "My daughter... She was in Pennhurst, a while ago now. As you already know. I became friendly with a nurse who worked there at the time. She doesn't work there anymore, but she went by to visit some of her old workmates a few days ago. One of them gave her this."

Giving her a wary look, Tinsley unfolded the note, skimming it quickly. Very quickly. It only had three words after all, in a rushed scrawl.

 _Help me. Graham_.

The PI swallowed. "...Why did she give this to you?"

"To give to Michael. But he said to give it to you. That you'd find it useful."

"Yeah. Yeah, I will." He folded it back up again, finally giving her a smile. "Thanks. Before you go, could I just get your friend's address?"

 

* * *

 

 

He knew something wasn't right from the beginning. Probably because of the fact that her front door had been bust open, wood splintered around the broken lock.

Tinsley stepped into the hallway, standing in the quiet for a moment. Listening. All he could hear was his own breathing, his own heart thumping. He moved further into the house, one hand on the gun strapped to his belt. He'd never had to shoot it before, but there was a first time for everything.

The place seemed to be empty. The television flickered in the sitting room, but for some reason it was on mute. An old noir film. On the screen stood a detective in a long coat, a fedora placed jauntily on his head, silhouetted by the streetlights around him. Tinsley watched it for a moment, hands on his hips. It wasn't exactly his favorite genre. Not because it was too close to reality or anything. He just thought they were pretty daft. 

He moved into the kitchen, and finally found who he was looking for. Kind of.

The woman was hanging from the curtain rod. Her eyes watched him, glazed, like a morbid marionette. Tinsley stood still, frozen in place, his breath caught in his throat. He was used to seeing dead bodies, he basically saw them on a nightly basis. But he rarely saw a suicide.

He inched closer to the body, looking it up and down. Gingerly reaching out, he touched her hand; still slightly warm. His eyes landed on the marking around her wrist, then to the matching one on the other wrist. He snatched his hand away, staring up at her face in horror. This wasn't a suicide. She'd been murdered. He immediately knew why. The letter.

He should go. He should call the police. But first, he should take a look around. 

The paper folder was peeping out from under her mattress. He took it out, flipping it open. A USB key was tucked into it. The pages were all in varying shades of yellow, wrinkled, like they'd been soaked in tea. But it was what was on them that actually interested him. 

"What sort of place gives patients LSD?" he said aloud, wandering down the stairs. The list went on: PCP, mescaline, DMT. What the fuck were they giving to those patients?

He paused at the kitchen door, his thoughts rushing from his head. The body was gone.

Shoving the folder into his jacket, he bolted from the house, legging it down the driveway at such a speed he almost fell against his car. He wrenched the door open, throwing himself in. " _Fuck_. Fuck fuck fuck."

 

* * *

 

 

A new note was stuck to his door. He stared at it, still breathing heavily from his rush to get back home. 

 _Offer still stands - G_.

He ripped it off the door, crumpling it up and flinging it to the ground. An uncomfortable cough made him pause. He turned his head to stare at his neighbor, like a child who had just been caught scribbling on the walls.

"You okay there, Tinsley?" she asked, a concerned smile on her face.

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm good." He bent down to pick up the paper, avoiding her eyes. "Uh... Do you have a pen on you, by any chance?"

She nodded, passing it over. "Um, you can keep it. Night."

"Goodnight!" He flattened the note as best he could against the door, adding a reply.

 _Fuck off - C.C_.

He bit his bottom lip in concentration as he struggled to fit in the next bit.

_Also, do you just carry a packet of sticky notes around like a weirdo?_

He slammed the door behind him, throwing his keys onto the table beside him. They skidded across the surface, dropping off the other side and clattering to the ground. He cursed, circling the table to pick them up. His hands fumbled for the light switch, his fingers brushing paper instead. Another fucking note. He was going to scream at Goldsworth the next time he saw him. Little bastard was going into his apartment now. He flicked on the lights.

The note had just one thing on it; a large red X. It was scratched onto it, the paper torn in some places, like whoever wrote it had been very, _very_ angry. Tinsley peeled it off the light switch, frowning at it. Ricky's notes weren't usually so vague. Plus, this one was on green paper, while Ricky's were always white. He turned around, still holding the note in his hand. The dark rooms of his apartment seemed significantly more threatening now.

"Goldsworth?" he called, his free hand drifting to his gun. "You in here?"

Nothing. It was so quiet he was convinced he could hear his blood rushing through his ears.

"I'm actually outside," came a voice through the door. 

Tinsley jumped, his heart leaping into his throat. "For God's sake! Don't fucking do that!"

"You asked!"

Tinsley yanked open his door, staring at the man, who stared back with wide eyes. "Stop leaving me stupid notes!"

"They're not stupid! They're cool."

"Oh, you're one of those serial killers who have a 'thing'? How edgy of you." Tinsley swiped the note from Ricky's hand, scrunching it up without even looking at it. "Go away."

"To answer your question," began Ricky, pulling a packet of sticky notes from his pocket and waving them in the air. "Yeah, I do carry these around. They're very practical, and I love to be prepared. Also, I want to come in."

Tinsley shook his head. "Nope. No. Go away."

"I-" Ricky's eyes landed on the other note in the PI's hand, a frown appearing on his face. "Are you trading notes with someone else?"

"Yes, Ricky, I'm cheating on you with another loopy murderer," he hissed, glancing up and down the corridor to make sure they were alone. "I'm sorry to have to break it to you this way."

"What does it mean?" Ricky stepped into the apartment, taking the piece of paper from Tinsley's hand as he shoved him aside. "This is, like, ten times spookier than anything I leave. I gotta work on that."

Taking a deep breath, Tinsley shut the door, resting his head against it. "I don't know what it means. I thought it was you. Hence the reason I was calling your name."

"Oh, I thought you were just looking for me."

Tinsley gave him a flat look. For a serial killer, the guy was weirdly naive. "No. I wasn't."

"Oh. Okay." Ricky shrugged, moving into the kitchen. He switched on the lights. "So you're being sent anonymous notes?"

"I don't really want to discuss my personal life with you."

"I basically stalk you, Tinsley. Remember?" Ricky sat at the table, folding his arms on it as he waited for the PI to join him. "It's something to do with Pennhurst, isn't it."

"Get out of my apartment, Goldsworth."

"Sit down," said the man, his voice suddenly taking on a dangerous edge.

Tinsley obeyed this time, pulling out a chair. In person, it was easy to forgot how batshit crazy this smiley five-foot-ten man actually was.

"Yeah, it's Pennhurst," he said reluctantly. 

Goldsworth tilted his head to one side, willing the PI to look directly at him, which he did. "Listen. I think we can help each other here."

 

 

 

 


	3. Strike Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley and Ricky do some good-cop bad-cop. It doesn't go well.

The house was still the same. All the curtains were still drawn, the weeds were still rampant. Tinsley sat in the car, staring up at the dusty windows. He hadn't expected to be back so soon. And he definitely hadn't expected to have company.

"Come on," said Goldsworth, closing his car door and circling the bonnet to the sidewalk. "We don't have all day."

Sighing an exasperated sigh, Tinsley killed the engine. He decided to leave the keys in, though. She probably wasn't going to answer again, and they'd probably be heading back into the town in five minutes. 

He followed the shorter man up the driveway, hands in his pockets. "She's not going to let us in."

"Let's just try," he replied flippantly, hopping up the porch steps.

For God's sake. Tinsley was regretting their deal already. You see, it had been agreed upon that Tinsley would find out what was going on in Pennhurst, and in return, Ricky would leave him alone forever. Why the guy wanted to know what the asylum was up to was of no interest to the PI. He just had to give Ricky the answer, and he'd be free. It was all good.

What was not so good was that Ricky was insisting on accompanying him. Everywhere. He was pretty sure he'd had a nightmare similar to the situation he was currently in.

Goldsworth's knocking quickly turned into an impatient banging on the door, the wood shaking with each impact. "Hello? Open up!"

"Fucking stop it!" Tinsley scowled at him, finally joining him up on the porch. "She doesn't want to talk. As I told you on the way here. Multiple times."

"Well, _I_ want to talk." Ricky gave him a smile as he retreated back down the steps, heading around to the side of the house.

After a moment of mental screaming, Tinsley went after him. "What the hell are you doing, Goldsworth? Get down!"

Ricky was halfway over the side gate, and clearly had no intention of coming back down. At least, not on the side Tinsley wanted him to. The man disappeared over the fence, which shook slightly as he let go. The PI stepped forwards, placing a finger against the gate and pushing slightly. It swung open, revealing Ricky standing on the other side, picking splinters from his hands. They stared at each other in silence, like a paused movie.

"I didn't know it was open."

"Yeah, I guessed." 

Yep. Ricky Goldsworth was by far the clumsiest murderer he'd ever come across in his life. For a moment, he wondered how the guy hadn't been caught yet. _Oh yeah_ , Tinsley thought to himself. _Because of me_.

A few minutes later and Tinsley wasn't thinking so lightly of the man anymore.

Goldsworth had practically thrown the woman around the kitchen, like she was nothing but a doll. He wasn't exactly hurting her, not a lot, but she was screaming like a banshee, flinching every time he moved even an inch. Tinsley winced at the sound of her screams for help, turning his head away as Ricky continued trying to get her to talk.

"Pennhurst!" he was shouting, looming over her, his eyes wide, wild. "Tell us about what they're doing! TELL US!"

Tinsley stayed by the back door, hands clenched into fists by his sides. He couldn't watch it any longer. His eyes landed on the IV drip in the sitting room, illuminated by the sunlight from outside.

"What's the drip for?" he found himself asking.

Ricky paused in his interrogating, straightening up to look at the PI. He almost looked offended, like a teacher who had just been rudely interrupted by a student. "I don't know."

"I'm not asking you." Tinsley finally forced himself to look at the woman, curled up against the fridge. "What is it? Are you sick?"

She shivered as Ricky turned back to her. "...morphine."

"Morphine?"

She nodded, hugging her knees tightly. "That's why... Michael said it was my fault..."

"What was your fault?" Tinsley crossed the kitchen, crouching down in front of her. "What happened?"

She was staring with glazed eyes, but not at him. Her gaze flickered, as if she was watching someone who wasn't even here. "Graham... he took my morphine. He got addicted. I didn't know. I told Michael not to send him to Pennhurst. I told him. But he wouldn't _listen_. He wouldn't _believe_. He- I didn't-"

"Shh. Sh." Tinsley watched her shaking, her fingers trembling. "It's okay."

Her eyes landed on his, staring. It was unsettling, to say the least. "In Pennhurst... They gave us certain things. Drugs and... new drugs. Doctor Fear-"

The bullet shattered the kitchen window before shattering her skull. 

Tinsley threw himself backwards, barreling into Ricky, the two of them tumbling to the floor. He could feel her blood on his face, hot and thick, like tar. Ricky immediately went for the door, half-crawling, half-running. The tiles exploded beside him, the bullets chasing him, white dust blowing into the air with each impact. Tinsley headed through the living room, his heart pounding in his ears, his stomach churning at the sight of her slumped against the fridge. He could see Ricky flying down the driveway, his jacket blowing out behind him like a makeshift cape. Where the hell was he-

The keys. He'd left the fucking keys in the car.

Tinsley shoved open the sitting room window, knocking over the IV drip as he scrambled out. He could hear the engine starting up, the revving echoing through the quiet suburb. Little bitch was going to abandon him! No way. Not today, Goldsworth. Not any day.

The PI practically threw himself on the car, landing heavily on the bonnet. The brakes screeched. "Get out!" He pounded the window with each word, wishing it was a certain someone's face. "Get out of my fucking car!"

"Get the fuck off!"

"Don't you even _think_ of driving-"

The car jerked forwards a meter or so, cutting him off. Tinsley cursed loudly as he was almost thrown off, clutching the windscreen wipers. He whipped out his gun, striking the window with it hard enough to leave a small crack on the glass, before pointing the weapon directly at Ricky's wide-eyed face. It seemed to do the trick. Goldsworth rolled into the passenger seat as Tinsley got behind the wheel, slamming the accelerator. 

 

* * *

 

 

"I can't- Actually, no, I _can_ believe you did that." 

They sat in the car, in silence, in the dark.

"I panicked."

"You were going to leave me to just die, hm?"

"I _panicked_."

Tinsley buried his face in his hands, recoiling as he touched the congealed blood on his face. "Oh my God. I'm going to-"

"You've seen more blood than that," said Ricky dismissively. 

"I hate you. I really, really do. A lot."

"What did I do?"

Tinsley stared straight ahead, struggling to keep his temper. "You need to leave before I do something very stupid."

Ricky smiled at him. "Funny, that's what I said before I killed my first-"

The PI suddenly gripped the steering wheel, shaking it so hard the whole car joined in. "Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! Shut the fuck up your fucking mouth!"

"Jesus Christ, sir," said Ricky, eyebrows raised. "Control yourself."

"Get out of my car and go home."

A pause. "I can't go home."

"You're going to have to."

Ricky followed him to the door of the apartment complex. "I can't. You don't understand."

"Then sleep on the damn street." 

"But I-"

"Keep your voice down," hissed Tinsley, whipping around to glare at him. "My neighbors already think I'm a weirdo because of the endless stream of strange notes on my door, but I think me being covered in blood would be the final straw."

Ricky made a face, like he was studying a particularly confusing math equation. "You're not exactly _covered_."

"Maybe not by serial killer standards, no, but just to let you know, this-" He gestured at his face. "-is actually an above average amount of blood to have on your face."

Goldsworth shrugged. "Well, that's too bad."

"You're not coming in."

"They know where I live."

Tinsley paused. "Who?"

"Pennhurst." The guy suddenly looked... small. Smaller than usual. "I'm... I'm scared."

The PI swallowed. He couldn't really put a finger on what he was feeling. Protective, maybe? Whatever it was, he didn't like it. "And?"

"There was a guy in my room the other night."

Tinsley blinked. "Uh, okay."

"No, like, I didn't know him." Ricky glanced over his shoulder into the dark parking lot, pulling down his hoodie sleeves to cover his hands. "I woke up and he was just... there."

"You were probably just having a nightmare, Goldsworth."

"No, he was real. He talked to me." Ricky stared up at him, a stray dog left out in the rain. "I just need somewhere to crash. For one night."

Tinsley stood with his hands on his hips, sighing heavily. "I- Right. Right, one night. _One_. Then you back off."

It was strange seeing no note left on his door. Instead, the usual writer was standing beside him. In person. For once, the sign on his door was the first thing he could see.

 _C.C. Tinsley. PI_.

"What does it stand for?"

Tinsley shoved his key into the door. "Private investigator."

Ricky gave him a flat look. "I know that. What does C.C. stand for?"

"I stand for justice."

"Shut up. I meant what does C.C.  _mean_."

He paused, turning his head to look down at the man. "I mean business."

"Is it Cecil?"

Tinsley rolled his eyes, pushing open his door. "No. It's-"

His words caught in his throat as he flicked on the lights. He heard Ricky inhale sharply behind him.

On the wall were two large X's, painted in dripping red.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired to make the C.C. joke because of a comment on my previous chapter! I didn't notice how funny it was that he just called himself C.C. instead of an actual name until I read the comment. lmao


	4. Strike Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ricky reminds Tinsley just who he is. Karma then arrives wielding a baseball bat with his name on it.

For now, the red X's were not to be discussed. After moving to the kitchen, they had silently agreed to ignore the fact that someone had broken into the apartment to paint them. It was a rough enough neighborhood. Maybe he had just been some bored youths. They'd both been there. That was when Tinsley had realized he was good at solving problems, and when Ricky had, well...

Ricky Goldsworth was, as you are aware, a serial killer. A madman. A straight-up murderer. He knew this about himself; for all his insanity, he found himself to be quite self-aware. Yet for some reason, C.C. Tinsley the Private Investigator gave him the chills. Yes, it's true. In some ways, he'd go as far as to say he hated Tinsley. Probably because the PI had power over him; Tinsley was a ticking time bomb that could blow up his life at any second. Ah yes, there it was again. That smooth transition from hate to fear. Ricky was sick of it.

There were a few reasons as to why he felt the way he did about Tinsley.

First of all, what the hell was his first name? Did his parents just call him C.C? Maybe it was Ceecee? He didn't know, and the PI hadn't told him. It was both irritating and unsettling.

Secondly, Tinsley knew about him, about what he does. All the ins-and-outs of every murder Ricky had committed for the past year. This was why Ricky kept his distance as he followed him, like a cat stalking a particularly intimidating mouse. He had to make sure that Tinsley didn't snitch, didn't break their deal. The PI had never threatened it, but why would Ricky trust him? For all his vigilante investigations, the guy wasn't as clean as he seemed. Ricky knew this for a fact.

He had seen what Tinsley had done that night in the abandoned subway station. Ricky had been down there, doing something quite similar. He had seen the PI bring the crying woman down the steps, push her to the ground, and shoot her right through the head. He remembered the look of horror on the PI's face as he saw Ricky standing just down on the tracks; it could've been because he had just been caught killing someone, or it could have been because Ricky had been covered in blood (not his blood, but that didn't matter). Tinsley had taken one look at him and fled up the stairs into the night, taking the steps two at a time, but not before Ricky had seen the badge attached to his belt. A few hours later, and Ricky had tracked him down. He had hidden the body, and he wouldn't snitch on one account; that Tinsley make sure he, Ricky Goldsworth, remain innocent for the rest of his life. 

He'd never received a look brimming with such hatred as he had at that moment. But no matter how much the then-detective didn't want to, he had to. So Tinsley had retired very early and become a private investigator, to make their deal a little more manageable. It had all worked out quite well in the end.

But the main reason Tinsley gave him the chills was his lack of fear. The guy just didn't seem to care about _anything_. He didn't seem to care about what Ricky had seen in Pennhurst. He didn't seem to care that they were clearly being watched. And he didn't seem to care that Ricky Goldsworth, the brutal killer, was sitting in his kitchen.

The PI was just... watching him. Ricky watched back. It was an odd scenario, yes. Neither of them had slept yet; they didn't trust each other enough to put their guards down. So they just stood. And stared. He wondered if Tinsley was thinking about the same stuff he was.

"Why did you do it?"

Tinsley blinked at him, as if surprised he could speak. "Why'd I do what?"

"Kill that woman."

The PI paled, quickly busying himself by turning on the kettle. "I don't want to discuss that with you."

"It's the one thing about you that I don't know. It's annoying."

"Well, I've never voluntarily shared anything personal with you in the first place, and I'm not starting now." He threw Ricky a dry smile over his shoulder. "So sorry for any inconvenience caused." 

Ricky scowled at the back of the man's head. He used to think that Tinsley was scared of him. He used to be pretty sure, actually. But now the PI was beginning to get a bit too confident for his liking. A bit too mouthy. He'd have to sort that out soon enough, before it became too... normal.

"Was she an ex or something?"

"I'm not telling you, Goldsworth. But no, she wasn't. I'm not crazy."

"You're not completely sane either, though. Since you, well, killed someone."

"It wasn't-" Tinsley turned to look at him, his face unreadable. "What are you trying to do here?"

"Nothing, really." He shrugged, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on the table. "Just making conversation."

"Well stop."

"You sound a little bit defensive there, Tinsley. Is it because I'm right?"

The PI glared at him. "You're not right."

Ricky grinned, his chin resting on his hands. "Jeez, C.C. If looks could _kill._ "

"If only." Tinsley went back to making tea or coffee or whatever he was doing.

"What do you think of earlier?"

"Oh, when we were both almost peppered with bullets and then you tried to steal my car? I thought it was great fun."

Ricky smiled at him. "Look, it's survival of the fittest, Tinsley. I got to your car first because I'm faster-"

"I highly doubt that."

"Huh?"

"I highly doubt that you're faster than me." The PI took a sip of his drink, leaning back against the counter behind him. "I mean, look at me. Then look at you."

Ricky scowled at him. "Oh, just because you're taller-"

"Considerably taller."

"You're a bit of a smartass, aren't you?"

"I've been told," replied Tinsley, a small smile flickering across his mouth. "It's easier with some people than others."

"Back to my question," said Ricky sharply; the guy was really beginning to irritate him. "That woman got straight-up assassinated. Why?"

"Pennhurst, I'm assuming. It's not that complicated, Goldsworth."

"You better watch your tongue before you lose it."

The PI paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. The man was staring at him, face devoid of emotion, but with a look in his eyes that could split a rock at ten paces.

Tinsley swallowed, lowering his cup. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Ricky got to his feet, the chair scraping slowly across the tiles. "That won't do."

The PI put his mug down, watching the man warily. "What are you doing?"

"With most people, the only way to be sure that they feel sorry is to _make_ them feel sorry."

Tinsley backed away along the counter as Ricky approached him. The guy looked like a whole different person; eyes darker, face blank. He seemed... bigger. Tinsley felt his back hit the wall, the plaster icy cold through his shirt. He could see his gun beside the kitchen sink, just a few feet away. Ricky, however, was closer.

"You kill me and there'll be no one left to clean up your shit," said Tinsley, struggling to keep his voice from shaking. "Think about that for a second."

"Who said anything about killing?"

The PI could barely breathe; he pressed his hands back against the wall on either side of him to try and stop them from trembling. "Ricky..."

"Maybe I'll break a bone or two. Which finger is your least favorite?" He grabbed one of the PI's hands, yanking it forwards. "This one?"

Tinsley pulled against him, roughly shoving his free hand into the man's chest. In a flurry of movement, Ricky grabbed the PI by the collar of his shirt, slamming him back against the wall with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. 

"Don't forget who you're speaking to," growled Ricky through gritted teeth. "Don't _ever_ forget."

"I won't," breathed Tinsley, his head resting back against the wall, eyes glued to Ricky's face. 

"Cool. We're on the same page then." Ricky immediately let him go, kindly dusting him off. "You okay? You look quite pale."

Tinsley stayed against the wall for a few minutes, watching as Ricky helped himself to the cup of tea he'd left on the counter. He felt like a zookeeper who had fallen into the tiger enclosure. Maybe if he stayed still, if he stayed quiet, the tiger wouldn't rip his face off.

"Sit," said Ricky, pulling back a chair. "We've got important things to discuss."

He noticed the PI's gaze flicker to the gun beside the sink, quickly snatching it up and emptying out the bullets. Tinsley watched him in silence, still leaning back against the wall, as if stuck there.

Ricky used the gun to point at the chair. "I said sit."

Reluctantly, Tinsley did as he was told. 

"So, this whole Pennhurst thing," began Goldsworth, sitting up on the table beside him, legs swinging nonchalantly. "There's definitely something odd happening, right?"

"Yeah."

"Come on, now. Don't be scared. I was just messing with you."

"I didn't find it funny."

"Oh well." Ricky leaned back, hands propping him up, a thoughtful look on his face. "This doctor Fear is popping up a lot, isn't he?"

"Yeah. He is."

"Then how about this." He hopped down, giving the PI a hearty pat on the back. "You go and find out who he is on your little computer, and I'll run along to Pennhurst and do some real investigating." 

"Pennhurst is an hour's drive away. How are you going to get there?" Tinsley rolled his eyes as he felt his car keys being plucked from his jacket pocket. "Ah. I see. Great plan."

"See you in a while!"

Tinsley sighed with relief as the door slammed shut. Was it too much to hope that Ricky would drive straight off a cliff?

 

* * *

 

 

Ricky stood in front of the gates, hands in his pockets. The gates were creepy enough by themselves; chipped black paint, ornate, like something from a haunted mansion. But what was creepier was the large padlock and chain holding them closed. What kind of asylum kept their front gates chain closed? Was that even legal? Ricky laughed to himself. Since when did he care about whether stuff was legal or not?

He began to walk, circling the red brick walls. Ivy crawled all over them, spindly fingers holding whatever secret, whatever misery lay beyond them. Every now and then there was metal fencing, black iron bars, like a prison, through which Ricky could see the gardens. They were empty. They were empty last time, too. Tinsley had commented on it a few times. The symmetrical layout was almost mesmerizing; the perfectly cut grass, the expertly shaped bushes. He thought he could see glimpses of flowerbeds, but they were obscured by the light fog rolling in. It was always foggy up here. Probably because the asylum was slightly up a hill. Lonely. Isolated.

On the other side of the metal bars laid paths that lead straight from the wall into the garden, probably to meet in the center. He could only assume, however. The fog was getting thicker, so much so that he couldn't actually see the end of the paths. He paused at the next set of iron bars, squinting through them.

A lone figure was standing just up the path. His white coat was just visible through the damp fog. He stood facing where Ricky was, hands behind his back. Ricky could almost feel the man's gaze on him, sharp and cutting, like a needle. He moved closer to the bars, gripping them with both hands.

"Hey! Hello! Why are your front gates locked?"

The figure didn't respond. He didn't even move. He just stood, watching. Observing.

"Answer me!" shouted Ricky. "I want to come in!"

"You will."

The voice made Ricky take a step back, a strange mixture of fear and sadness churning inside him. He'd heard that voice before.

The man was making his way up the path towards him. With each step, Ricky could feel every positive emotion draining out of him. He felt heavier, like the burden of a thousand tormented souls rested on his shoulders. He couldn't speak. He couldn't feel. Nothing existed in this person's presence but despair.

"It's only a matter of time," said the man, just on the opposite side of the metal fencing. His eyes were impossible to make out; his glasses reflected every bit of light in the air. "Time is your enemy, Richard Goldsworth. It is one you can't kill. It is one you can't stop. It's one you can't even see."

Ricky recoiled at his words, the pebbles crunching under his feet. "You were in my _home_. I saw you." He knew he hadn't been hallucinating. He knew that someone had been in his room those few nights ago.

"I had to check up on you, Goldsworth."

"Check up on me?"

"You're hiding in Mr Tinsley's house now, I've been told." The man tutted, his face betraying no emotion. "He won't be with us for much longer."

Ricky stared at him. "What are-"

"Three strikes," said the man. His voice was barely a whisper, but it hurt Ricky's head more than any screaming he'd ever caused. "And he's out."

The red X's.

Ricky turned on his heel, fleeing away from the man. He had to warn Tinsley. He had to stop him. 

 

* * *

 

 

Tinsley sat back in his chair, rubbing a thumb along his bottom lip as he thought. So, this doctor Fear was a real enigma. No apparent first name. No relatives. No place or date of birth. There was barely any information about him, but the small bit TInsley had managed to find was pretty juicy. Fear had worked in a large mental institute in New Jersey, but had been relocated due to dubious medical practices. But that wasn't the part that made Tinsley curious. No. It was the fact that Fear had been sent to Pennhurst not as a doctor, but as a patient. And maybe also the fact that his second name actually appeared to be Fear. 

The PI shrugged; maybe the guy was just a total douche who had changed his name to try and fit whatever psycho image he wanted. It was a possibility.

He heard a car screech into the parking lot outside, a door slamming closed two seconds later. If that was Goldsworth with his car, he'd flip. He got to his feet, storming out to the door and flinging it open. He waited patiently, hands on his hips, foot tapping. Oh, he had some scolding to do alright. 

Ricky came racing up the corridor, pushing Tinsley back into the apartment before he could even speak. "Tell me you didn't look up anything. Tell me you didn't get around to it yet."

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Tinsley frowned at the panicking man in front of him. "Of course I looked up stuff. It's been, what, three hours since you left?"

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck." Ricky pointed at the large red X's painted on the walls. "They're strikes!"

"Huh?" Tinsley glanced at them, shrugging. "I'll paint over them tomorrow."

"Three strikes, Tinsley!" yelled Ricky, physically shaking the PI. "Three strikes and you're out!"

"What the fuck are you talking about? Let go!"

The sound of engines rumbling made them both shut up. Ricky hurried to the window, staring out. He could feel Tinsley watching over his shoulder.

Three white vans were pulling into the parking lot. Blacked-out window. No licence plates. And a red X on each of them. The door slid open, and out poured people clad in black, hurrying towards the building.

Tinsley jumped into action, grabbing his gun off the kitchen table. "Bullets! Bullets, where did you put them?!"

"In my pocket! Hold on!" Ricky yanked his hoodie off, shaking it upside down onto the floor. The bullets scattered across the tiles.

"You fucking idiot!"

"Get them! Get them!" Ricky scrambled to pick them up, dumping them into Tinsley's hands. "Fucking fucking fuck! Where are your knives?"  
  


 

 

 

 


	5. Nothing to fear but Fear himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley involuntarily returns to Pennhurst. Ricky voluntarily joins him.

 

Tinsley had learned a few things in his line of work. Things like how important it is to be brave in the face of danger, to face your fears head on. But he had also learned that it is better to look a coward for one minute than to be, well, dead forever. So after fumbling to get the bullets into his gun, he ran away. Off down the corridor he went, the doors flying past as he made a beeline for the first floor fire escape. He'd ignored Ricky shouting after him; the guy could get his head blown off for all he cared. It would be a good thing for Tinsley in the end, anyway. Plus, what had Goldsworth ever done for him?

Tinsley immediately regretted asking himself this question, because Goldsworth _had_ actually done something for him. Quite recently.

He'd bothered to warn Tinsley about the third strike.

So the PI had skidded to a halt on the fire escape, gripping the damp railings. He could hear doors slamming in the building, people yelling, shouting. Half of him wanted to keep running. The other half wanted to go back and help Ricky. If he didn't, did this mean he had worse morals than a serial killer? Was Ricky essentially a better person than he was? What the fuck? He hesitated, going down a few more steps, then going back up, then repeating. The ground - and potential safety - was so close, just a few more steps. He thought his body would literally tear itself in half.

The problem solved itself only seconds later. He heard hard footsteps coming down the corridor. Ricky came flying out onto the fire escape at top speed. But instead of stopping, like a normal person would, the guy just kept running. He threw himself over the railings in an impressive dive, sailing the few meters through the air and disappearing over the wall across the way. Tinsley stared in stunned silence, his brain unable to process what he'd just seen. Unable to process the fact that Ricky might have just straight-up killed himself. Unable to process that he was actually no longer alone on the fire escape.

And that's why he was currently in the back of a white van, hands bound with a zip-tie, surrounded by individuals with black masks covering half their faces. They sat in silence as the vehicle rumbled down whatever road they were on. It was a bit awkward, really. Tinsley kept his eyes glued to the floor, appearing quite vacant. His mind, however, was racing. Was he going to be killed? Had Ricky survived that stupid jump? And if he _had_ survived, would Ricky even bother coming to save the PI who had literally just abandoned him? The fact that Ricky Goldsworth was his sole lifeline right now made him feel a bit queasy. 

 Once the van had come to a stop, the two men sitting either side of him pulled him to his feet, one of them taking a black bag from their pocket.

"Really?" Tinsley gave him a flat look. "That's a bit unnecessary, guy. I know where we are." They yanked the bag on over his head anyway, plunging him into darkness. 

 "Oh, wow! The mystery!" he continued as he was dragged out into the freezing cold; even if he couldn't see the place, the feeling of the fog trailing its icy fingers along his skin gave it away. "Where are we going? Disneyland?" He paused. "Hold on. Is this a Febreze commercial?" 

"Shut up," snapped one of the men, his impatience clear in his voice. 

A dull creaking alerted him to the fact that the black iron gates were being opened. Then followed what felt like an hour of walking.

Tinsley's head struck the top of a door, sending him reeling backwards. Thankfully, his captors bothered catching him. "For fuck's sake. No one could have warned me, no?"

They continued on into the building. Even though they were now inside, it was somehow still just as cold as outside. And just as silent. Tinsley allowed himself to be lead along, finding his lack of sight to be quite unnerving now. The way in which he couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything, couldn't even smell anything... He wondered if this was what it was like to be dead. He expected he might find out soon enough.

He was sat down at a metal table, the bag roughly tugged off his head. "Ah! Watch it!" The sudden glare of white light was painful.

"Mr Tinsley."

The PI froze, his eyes adjusting to the light. A tall figure, almost as tall as he himself, was looming over him. His bearded face was familiar. It had to be, seeing as Tinsley had just spent a good few hours trying to figure out the mind behind it.

He stared up at the white-coated man standing across the table from him. "You... are doctor Fear."

"I am." The man took the seat across from him, linking his hands on the table between them. "I hear you've been doing some research about me. About my past."

Tinsley stared at him, a slight frown on his face. "Uh, well, yeah. I'm a private investigator."

"Yes. C.C. Tinsley, the private investigator."

"Mmhmm. That's me."

The doctor watched him in silence for a moment. "I gave you two chances to stop. Yet you didn't."

"Oh, the red X's? How subliminal of you."

Fear smiled at him; the gesture didn't seem to reach his dead eyes. "Mystery is part of who I am, I'm afraid. I can't seem to help it."

"You mean mystery is part of who you _try_ to be," corrected Tinsley, raising an eyebrow at him. "And that fact that I was beginning to unravel said mystery was threatening to that concept."

"You're not too different in that department, ' _C.C_.' Tinsley."

Tinsley smiled, looking almost amused. "That's not me trying to be mysterious, pal. Those are what people commonly call 'initials'. I don't hide my first name. Unlike you."

"I don't hide my first name either, Tinsley."

"Uh, yes, you do."

"My name is Doctor Fear."

"I-" Tinsley's eyes narrowed, his brow knitted. "...You're trying to tell me that your first name is Doctor."

"My parents were strange." The man shrugged. "I'm not even a qualified doctor."

"Why the hell are you wearing a doctor's coat then?"

"To convince people that I am. It worked on you."

"That's just bizarre." Tinsley leaned back in his seat, only then realizing that two of the black-clad men still stood either side of him. "And I'm guessing these aren't qualified nurses, either."

"You guess correctly."

"I tend to."

"Is that so?" Fear gave him a curious look over the top of his glasses. "Try and guess what it is that we do here, then."

"Well, you run a fucked up asylum, right?" Tinsley didn't take his eyes from the man's; by now it was clear that there was a sort of staring competition occurring, and there was no way his immature ass was losing. "Giving patients hallucinogens and whatnot. For what reason, I don't know. Care to tell me?"

"I'll tell you one thing, and that is that you're wrong."

"About what? I know for a fact that you're giving your patients hallucinogenic drugs."

"Oh, about that, you're partially right. But we're not an asylum."

Tinsley blinked at him. "Huh?"

"As I said, I'm not even a doctor. Yes, I did a short stint in that other medical dump, but that wasn't to learn how to heal people." Fear got to his feet, staring down at the PI, face blank. "It was just to observe."

"Observe what? What are you doing here?"

"Ah-ah, I'm not that stupid, Tinsley." He crossed the room, moving out of sight. "Maybe you'll guess after I try something new."

Tinsley turned his head, trying to see what the man was doing. He could hear the sound of metal scraping off metal, like someone was rummaging through a pile of coins. "If you're trying to freak me out here, I'm not feeling it."

"Oh, I'm not quite started yet." Fear appeared back in his line of sight, a syringe filled with a clear liquid in his hand. "But you're right on this account. I am trying to scare you. And the only way to be sure that you're scared is to make you feel scared. Your friend Ricky said something similar recently, I recall."

Tinsley watched the syringe warily, the liquid sliding around inside. "He's not my friend."

"Oh, of course not. You hate each other, right?" Fear smiled at him, a patronizing smirk. "Ah, yes. I know about hate. I feel it everyday, from everyone I experiment on. What you and Goldsworth have is not true hate."

Tinsley waited for him to continue, watching him out of the corner of his eye. 

"I've seen it before. In many situations. A victim who is not a victim. An abuser who never truly abuses. They remain together in this... relationship filled with paranoia, and fear, and what they deem to be hate."

Tinsley swallowed, readjusting his seating. "You're talking shit right now, pal." 

"It's quite common. Really, it is. The paranoia, the fear." He watched the PI's face closely. "And the obsession."

"Obsession," he repeated, a flat look on his rapidly reddening face. "Yeah, no."

"Goldsworth is obsessed with you. I had been suspecting it for a while, but his reaction when I told him your life was in danger... It wasn't the reaction of someone who hates you, was it?" Fear remained standing beside his empty chair, holding the syringe with the needle upward. "You're much better at hiding your obsession. Or perhaps fascination is more accurate?"

Tinsley stayed quiet, just watching him. 

"You keep him safe, yes? You clean up his messes. You let him into your home when he feels threatened. You do what he says, when he says it."

"That's because I don't want to be fucking murdered, Fear. The guy's literally a serial killer."

"Yet you've never tried to kill him." Fear tilted his head slightly to one side, glasses glinting. "Odd. Especially if you hate him as much as you claim to."

Tinsley remained silent for a moment. "Not yet." 

"Not ever. Even though you 'despise' him. Even though Goldsworth knows about you. About what you did."

The PI visibly stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.

"Perhaps we should revisit that night, hm?" He nodded at the two men either side of the PI.

They immediately shoved Tinsley flat against the table, one of them yanking his arms forwards. He struggled hard, the chair falling over behind him as he fought to break away. One of the men pushed his sleeve up. 

"Let go of me!" shouted Tinsley, a hand holding him down by the back of his neck. He felt like a rabid dog about to be forcefully euthanized.

"I'd advise that you stay still," said Fear quietly, placing the needle against the inside of his arm. "This will only hurt a lot. Pain is all in the mind, after all."

 

* * *

 

 

Apart from the continuous ringing in his ears, Ricky was all good. The ringing had started when he had landed in the dumpster, which had been totally badass and ultra-cool. Even though he had blacked out for a minute or two. Or maybe an hour. Whatever. Time is an illusion.

A man had found him in the trash. He had woken him up, looking a tiny bit afraid. Ricky had lurched to his feet, stumbling out of the dumpster and onto flat ground again.

"What? What is it?" he'd snapped, his head ringing. It was worse than any hangover he'd ever had. "Who are you?"

"I'm sorry to, uh, wake you," said the man in a high-pitched squeak. It probably didn't help that Ricky was still holding one of the knives he'd managed to snatch up in Tinsley's kitchen. "My- My name is Michael, I was looking for C.C. Tinsley the-"

"-the private fucking investigator piece of shit." Ricky didn't care anymore. The next time he saw Tinsley he was going to strangle him. The guy had basically left him to die.

"Uh, yeah, maybe." The man looked bewildered, avoiding Ricky's gaze. "He's not home, his neighbor said you'd know where he is because you'd been staying there-"

"I don't know where he is. He can rot in hell. Bye."

"Please."

Ricky paused, looking over his shoulder at the man. "Huh?"

"Please." It was then he noticed how ill the man looked; pale, gaunt, bags under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days. "He's helping me with my son. Graham. I don't know if he's mentioned him. He's in Pennhurst. Tinsley said he'd help me get him home, but he won't answer my calls, he isn't returning them. I need his help. I need my son."

So Ricky had agreed to help. He'd returned to the PI's apartment, the door having been left open, and snooped around for a bit. He'd flicked through the tabs left open on Tinsley's laptop; one of them being about doctor Fear, one of them being Twitter, and one of them being the floor plans for Pennhurst asylum. After a quick scroll through the guy's Twitter - it turned out he was actually pretty funny, and they even shared similar political views - he'd begun to examine the floor plans. There hadn't always been gardens, it used to be an extension of the old building, which could explain the symmetrical layout of the paths and trees. They used to be corridors. But what was the most interesting was the underground floor, with tunnels extending every which way. Apparently they'd been abandoned in 1865, after being used to transport the dead bodies of mental patients who had contracted TB out of the building.

Ricky sat back in his (or rather, Tinsley's) chair, nodding to himself. This private investigation stuff wasn't so hard, really. Just a quick Google search and bada-bing bada-boom, he had his way into the asylum. As a quick afterthought, he downloaded the map onto his phone. Damn, he was good at this. Wasn't quite as thrilling as his usual hobby, however, but not exactly boring.

The nearest TB tunnel was at the bottom of the hill that lead to up to Pennhurst. He pulled Tinsley's car over, parking up beside the overgrown weeds along the side of the road. He made his way over to the rusted grating, staring through it. He could only assume that the metal was iron; it was so rusted it could've been anything, really. And fucking hell, it looked creepy. It _looked_ like hell. A chill breeze seemed to constantly be moving through it, accompanied by low groaning, as if the tunnels themselves were breathing. Ricky stepped back, staring up at the section of the asylum visible from where he was; the clocktower, silhouetted against the dim sunlight as the sun slowly crept into the air. He gripped the railings, the iron basically crumbling in his hands, coming apart in chunks. He felt like he was about to walk right into the valley of death.

"And I will fear no evil," he muttered to himself.

 

* * *

 

 _Her hair was wet with rain. And sweat. And blood. It stained his hands as he dragged her down the steps, his breathing so erratic it hurt his chest. She was screaming, of course she was screaming, but no one was around to help her. It was the middle of the night._ _She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, he told himself. It wasn't his fault he'd hit her._ _Oh, but it was. He had gotten the apartment number wrong. Instead of going to Ricky Goldsworth's apartment, instead of going to the murderer's apartment, he'd gone to the neighbor's. She hadn't answered the door, so he'd broken in, and- and-_

Tinsley could feel the tiles under his hands, slick and smooth. He bit his lip so hard he could taste blood, but another sob escaped anyway. 

_The bullet had gone through her neck. She was still alive, but she wasn't going to make it. She'd begged for an ambulance, spluttering, coughing, but he hadn't called one. There had been no point. No point. She was dying. She was going to die. Because of him. He'd killed her. But the world didn't need to know that. He'd just finish her off, he'd told himself as he helped her out of the apartment to the awaiting 'ambulance'. He'd get to keep his career, and she would do what she was about to do anyway. Bleed out. Die. He'd ignored her tears, her cries for help, he'd ignored everything as he brought her to the place that would soon become her tomb. And he'd placed the gun against her head. And he'd pulled the trigger._

He could barely see through the tears in his eyes. Everything was swimming. He tried to get to his feet, stumbling against the table, leaning on it, hands splayed on the metal. He could hear a voice whispering in his ear; _murderer, killer, criminal, liar, you slaughtered her like a sheep, like an animal, but who was the animal, Tinsley? Her, or you?_

"Shut up!" he shouted, swinging at Fear standing beside him. But he wasn't there. Tinsley fell to the ground like a drunk, his hands were suddenly covered with blood, in one was a gun, in the other was the woman's hair. Wet with rain, and sweat, and blood. It stained his hands as he dragged her down the steps, his breathing so erratic it hurt his chest. She was screaming, of course she was screaming-

_Her blood had splattered the dusty grey floors like a Charles Yates painting. Then he had appeared. The man down on the tracks had been covered in dark liquid; it was splashed across his face, his clothing, it covered his hands up to his elbows. Tinsley had stared, and Ricky Goldsworth had stared back. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Tinsley had fled, like he always does, he'd run away, he'd tried to hide, tried to forget, but it was still with him. What he'd done. What he'd done. What had he done?_

 

* * *

 

 

Ricky came to a halt at the sound of an anguished scream. It cut through the silence of the tunnels like a knife through flesh. Another one followed soon after, driving an icy spear through his chest.

Tinsley.

He forced himself to continue walking. He hadn't come here for Tinsley. He'd come here for himself. He'd come to see what this place was doing, because Pennhurst was still after him. They seemed to be eager for him to come in for some 'questions' or a quick 'interview'. Their eagerness had been swiftly transforming into aggression, however. If he could, he was going to get this place-

The next scream made him inhale sharply. It rang through the air, wavering ever so slightly before ending again. Ricky turned around, taking the knife from his belt as he followed Tinsley's voice.

 

 


	6. The Art of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ricky and Tinsley learn that you don't cross someone named Doctor Fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo there's drugs and addiction mentioned in this fyi

By the time Ricky had navigated his way out of the tunnels and into the asylum itself, the screams had stopped. Instead, an eerie silence had replaced them. He could hear water dripping somewhere nearby as he slowly made his way through the empty corridors. The place seemed as if it was abandoned, yet it was too clean to be so. It was like a corpse on the side of the road that was washed and dressed in a tuxedo. His quiet footsteps seemed loud as he made his way through the maze of tiled hallways, _step, step, step, step, tick, tock, tick, tock_. Time is your enemy, Ricky. That's what that doctor Fear guy had said to him. His fingers tightened around the handle of Tinsley's stainless steel knife. They'd only been in the apartment hours ago, yet it felt like years. He suspected that Tinsley was dead. Not that he cared. 

Okay, he cared. A little bit. But not because he liked the guy or anything. It was just... Tinsley was _his_. Tinsley was his to torment, to follow, to instill fear in. Yet now there was some other shmuck running around trying to do the same thing. What if he was better at it than Ricky? No, he didn't exactly want to save Tinsley. He didn't care if he was in pain, not really. He just wanted his property back. Remembering the look of terror on the PI's face in the kitchen the night before, the way he cowered away from him, it had given him a rush like nothing else. He was still in control. He was still Ricky Goldsworth.

A low groaning yanked him from his thoughts. He raised the knife, the weight of it reassuring in his hands. Moving quickly, silently, he approached the room where the sound had come from.

It was empty but for a single chair in the center, upholstered, like a dentist's chair. White tiled floor, white tiled walls, white tiled ceiling. It was so clean it hurt his eyes. On the chair sat a young man, slumped to one side. He was thin. He was so thin Ricky thought he'd shatter into a thousand pieces if he so much as breathed on him. And his _teeth_. They were next to nonexistent; brown, decaying, gaps running rampant. But even that wasn't the most disturbing thing.

Ricky stepped closer to the man, running a finger over the white powder dusting his nose and mouth. Cocaine. Pure cocaine. He rubbed it off on his hoodie, watching the man's face closely. He looked weirdly familiar, but he couldn't quite place his cocaine-dusted finger on it. The guy seemed oblivious to the fact that there was someone else in the room, eyes glazed, staring at the ceiling. A morbid statue. Ricky backed away, hurrying back into the hallway. A few doors down was another person, a woman, convulsing in her chair. She was bound by her wrists and ankles, a leather gag across her mouth. It was just like he'd seen the first time he'd poked around in the building. He reached out with a trembling hand, pulling the gag out of her mouth. Surprisingly, it was completely dry.

"Mama," she was mumbling, her head rocking from side to side. "Mama, I want to go to bed. I want to sleep. I want to sleep forever."

"What's going on in this place?" He blinked, his heart racing in his chest. "Your mom isn't here."

"You _are_ , Mama." The woman's eyes suddenly focused on him, a wide smile spreading across her sickly pale face. "I can see you."

He left the room in more of a hurry this time, ignoring the desperate cries of the woman. _Mama, please! MAMA!_

In his flustered attempt to navigate the increasingly identical corridors, he stumbled into yet another room, with yet another upholstered chair, with yet another deathly thin man strapped to it. This time, Ricky was certain he was dead. There was a low metal table beside him; on it sat a burnt metal spoon. His sleeve was rolled up, a shoelace around his arm, needle marks peppering his skin. Ricky swallowed, unable to keep his panicked breathing quiet. Heroin. This guy had been on heroin. He'd probably died of an overdose or some shit. Why the hell were all these people total crackheads? Was this place some sort of rehab center?

He practically ran out the door, but instead of entering the corridor he'd come through, he found himself in another white tiled room. This time, however, the chair was empty. The slam of the door shutting behind him made him cry out in surprise, whipping around, swiping with the knife. No one was there.

"You came for him. As I knew you would."

Ricky glanced around the room, frantic. "I didn't. I didn't come for him. I came for _myself_. I want to _know_."

"I didn't even need to specify who I was referring to." Fear's voice rang out, both shouting and whispering, both unemotional and brimming with pain, and sadness, and rage. "You did come for him. You came for what is yours."

"I didn't. I didn't." Ricky hissed as he accidentally struck his hand with the knife, a shallow cut opening up along his thumb. "I- I'm not here for him. I don't care about him. I don't _care_."

"He misses you."

"He doesn't. He doesn't care. And I don't care-"

"If he doesn't care, why do you? He abandoned you, Ricky. Twice."

Ricky swiped at the air in front of him, his vision growing misty, foggy. "Not twice. Once. One time."

"That night in the subway station, he was going to pin her murder on _you_." Fear's voice was light, as if telling a fairy tale to a child. "He was going to stand back as you were carted off to Ol' Sparky."

"That's not true," mumbled Ricky, squinting through the thick mist. "He- He didn't even know who I was." 

"Ah, but he did. That's why he was there that night. He was there to arrest you. He'd been following you for a while, you see." The amusement was clear in the man's tone. "He knew everything about you, he knew what you were doing. He was following you long before you were following him."

Bastard. Fucking bastard. 

"Oh yes, he is," said Fear, alerting Ricky to the fact that he was actually speaking out loud. "You can't trust him. He was going to turn you in then, and he's going to do it again. He's going to do it soon."

Ricky could barely see his hand in front of his face. Everything was a blinding white.

"Take a deep breath, Goldsworth. A long, deep breath."

 

* * *

 

 

Tinsley sat bolt upright, sucking in a deep breath. He sheets were damp with sweat. He fumbled for his phone, checking the time. 11:23pm. He'd slept for twelve hours straight. Or was it thirteen? He was panting for air, as if he'd just woken up from a nightmare. Had he? He couldn't quite piece together whatever obscure images were floating around in his head. He never remembered dreams anyway. It didn't-

Goldsworth.

Tinsley leapt out of bed, still dressed in his shirt and trousers, his tie loose around his neck. He must've conked out the second his head hit the pillow. Fingers shaking, he loaded his gun, breathing heavily. The murdering little shit was still in his apartment. He was sure of it.

He pushed open his bedroom door, gun raised. There was no sound but for the whirring of cars passing by outside. Streetlights illuminated the kitchen as he quietly moved through it. His shirt was stuck to him, despite the fact that it was actually quite chilly. There was no sign of Goldsworth. Not in the kitchen. Not in the sitting room. The gun was slick in his hands.

Ever so slowly, he opened the front door, feeling a cold wind blow in from the corridor outside. It was empty, silent but for the creaking of the fire escape door as it swung open at the end of the hallway. Tinsley didn't notice this, however. No, what he noticed was one of Goldsworth's notes on his door. Strangely enough, this one was blank. Well, almost. But the knife buried deep into the wood, pinning the paper to the door, didn't exactly count as writing.

He slammed the door closed, locking it, bolting it, his breathing shaky. The guy was coming for him. The doctor had said so.

The doctor?

Tinsley paused, his hands braced against the door. What doctor? Had he been to the hospital? A tall figure in a white coat lingered in the corner of his mind, face obscured by shadow. But just as quickly as he'd arrived, he was gone. The PI made his way to the bathroom, keeping his gun tucked into the back of his belt as he splashed icy cold water over his face. It dripped off his beard as he stared at the mirror in front of him, splattering against the sink like... like her blood when he'd shot her. She had been innocent. He'd killed her. He'd-

He suddenly and violently punched his reflection. The glass didn't shatter, however. It cracked a small amount, but the only thing Tinsley was aware of was the explosion of pain in his fingers.

"Fucking hell!" he yelled, stumbling back against the wall as he clamped his hand between his arm and side. "Shit, that was painful. Ow. Ow ow ow."

He stared at himself; face pale, hair tousled, shirt rumpled, overall just very disheveled. He didn't used to be like this. He used to be detective C.C. Tinsley, respected, renowned. Until Goldsworth. Until Ricky fucking Goldsworth. The name made his blood boil, his teeth grit. He'd felt a strange rush that night when he'd killed that woman, he'd admit it. But if killing a stranger made him feel like that, how would it feel to kill someone you abhorred? Imagining his hands around Ricky's throat, imagining watching the light drain from his eyes... it gave Tinsley a feeling like nothing else he'd experienced.

He needed it.

 

* * *

 

 

The apartment lights were off. 

Ricky watched the building from the street across the way. It was a quiet night - or morning? - with few cars and fewer people. The knife was heavy in his pocket. Tinsley could be up there right now, ringing his police buddies, selling him out. He could already feel that wave of anger rise up inside him, the rage that made his entire body hot, his vision tinted red, his breathing rapid. The little snake thought he could _lie_ to him? _Betray_ him? Ricky moved forwards towards the road, the sound of his heavy breathing seeming out of place in the calm quiet of the night. The PI was probably up there, fast asleep. It was the perfect time. And Ricky knew exactly when the time was perfect.

A light switched on in the apartment. He immediately backed into the darker shadows of the trees, half-hidden behind a half-dead bush. A tall silhouette moved to the window, unmistakable. Ricky's fingers tightened on the knife as he watched Tinsley standing in the window, agitating the small paper cut on his thumb. He blinked, taking his hand out of his pocket and examining said paper cut. He didn't remember doing that. Strange. The PI was just staring out. He wasn't moving. It seemed like he was waiting for someone. Or something.

Ricky crouched down, his eyes glued to the PI's silhouette. Patience was a big part of his hobby, he was well used to waiting. But on this one, he was finding it increasingly hard to restrain himself. He had already planned where he was going to put Tinsley's body; in the subway station they'd first met in. A bit of a poetic twist, he thought.

He waited for Tinsley to move. And waited. And waited.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear's tactics are kinda based on the quote "The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting." It's from that book thing 'The Art of War' hence the chapter name. Just a lil FACT! for ya


	7. A Balancing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley and Ricky get some tension out of their systems. It's quickly replaced.

Tinsley paced his kitchen, thoughts pounding through his head. Did thoughts usually feel so heavy? It was like somebody had taken his memories and dipped them in tar. He stopped by the sink, leaning against it, eyes closed. He hadn't always been like this, had he? Paranoid, unable to relax, stressed. He didn't think so, but he couldn't remember being any different. He found himself moving along the counter, trailing a hand over the flat surface. Something flickered in his mind, an image, like a television station with bad reception that had accidentally shown a flash of a different show. Tinsley followed the feeling, wading through the muddy thoughts, until he found himself backing up against the kitchen wall. It was a familiar stance, a familiar position. He'd done this before. But why? Why had he been backed up against his own kitchen wall? Placing his gun down on the table beside him, he gripped the front of his own shirt, imitating someone else holding him. This had happened. He could still feel the fear he'd felt when... When what? The person had told him never to forget who they were. They? He. _Him_. 

Goldsworth. The bastard had attacked him, tried to kill him. Right? But then why was he still alive? Tinsley leaned back against the wall, frowning as he thought. Ricky had been in his kitchen, he was certain. But why? Had he let him in? Why in the world would he have let Ricky Goldsworth into his home? He reached for the memories, for the truth, but it was like trying to catch a fish with his bare hands. The movement of the kitchen door silently swinging open made him freeze, his breathing so shakily quiet he mightn't have been breathing at all. 

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Ricky was so still he could've been carved from stone. Tinsley could see his gun on the table just a foot away, but any movement at all and the brittle silence would be shattered. Blink too quickly, breath too loudly, and an explosion was bound to follow. Ricky held a stainless steel knife in his hand; oddly, it wasn't the same one that had been pinning the note to the door. In fact, it looked very familiar. 

Still propped against the wall, Tinsley watched as the man moved into the kitchen, a strange edge to his walk, like a leopard with a bad hangover. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the low mumbling of a television in a nearby apartment. 

"We had a deal."

Tinsley held the man's intense gaze. "Had?"

"I know what you're going to do." A pause. "What you were planning on doing."

"I don't know what you're talking about. _You're_ the one who left the knife in my door."

A puzzled frown flickered across the man's face before disappearing just as quickly. "Don't bullshit me, Tinsley."

The PI inched towards his gun, his pulse hitching at the sudden rage in Ricky's voice. "If you're going to try and kill me, just do it."

"You even put a finger on that gun and I'll take off your hand."

Tinsley's hand hovered in the air, just above the weapon. "You started this. One of us has to end it."

"Then you better take a clean shot," replied Ricky in a low voice. "Because if you miss... Let's just say that no one on this planet could think up a more painful death than the one I have planned for you."

Tinsley's face betrayed no emotion. "I can."

 

* * *

 

 

The PI moved, but Ricky moved faster.

He flung the knife at Tinsley, so hard it buried itself up to its handle in the wall beside the PI's head with a loud crunch. Tinsley flinched as it did so, his aim thrown off, the bullet just glancing Ricky's shoulder before shattering the oven on the other side of the room. Ricky barreled into the taller man with such force it would've broken down a door, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and roughly throwing him to the ground. Tinsley scrambled backwards, cursing as Goldsworth landed on top of him, pinning him to the cold tiles. Another shot went off, disappearing into the ceiling. Jesus, he hoped his neighbors weren't home.

Ricky's hand gripped the gun, and Tinsley's fingers with it. He winced as yet another round went off, so close to his ear it deafened him. He used his other hand to hold the struggling PI down by the throat, fighting to keep him down as the man kicked out underneath him. Ricky forced the hand holding the gun down onto the tiles, trying to pry it from the PI's tight grip. Tinsley cursed as the weapon was wrenched from his grip. Just as swiftly, it came back around, striking him across the face. Ricky raised the gun again.

"You brought this on yourself." Goldsworth leaned down so that his face was inches from Tinsley's. "You made me do this."

"I didn't do shit," replied the PI heatedly. "It's not my fault you're fucking insa-" His voice was cut off as Ricky's fingers tightened around his throat. "You... shouldn't even... be..." The crushing grip tightened even more, so much so that he couldn't even finish what he was about to say.

"Being angry when someone lies to you is a rational reaction, Tinsley." Goldsworth watched as the man fought for breath, his heart racing. "You're a rational man, aren't you? What's that? I can't quite hear what you're trying to say."

Tinsley struggled desperately underneath him, his free hand pushing at Ricky's shoulder. His vision was starting to swim, his lungs felt like they were going to burst in his chest. And in front of him the entire time was Ricky Goldsworth's smiling face.

Ricky casually sat back, releasing his grip, an artist stepping back to admire his handiwork. The PI took a deep shuddering breath, his chest heaving as he sucked in mouthful after mouthful of air. For a few minutes, his rasping breaths were the only sound to be heard.

"Crazy bastard," croaked Tinsley, his neck burning where Ricky's fingers had been. "You should be fucking locked up."

Locked up? Ricky hesitated at the phrase. It was making him feel weird, like when you smell a certain smell that brings you back to a childhood memory that you'd otherwise forgotten about. Tinsley was staring at him, still breathing heavily, his eyes wary.

"You think a jail would fix me, do you?" Goldsworth shook his head, a fond smile on his face. "Oh, Tinsley. And you like to think that you're smart."

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe a loony bin would be better."

A loony bin. An asylum. Ricky found himself distracted again, a slight frown on his face as he tried to piece together exactly what was going on in his head. It had never been an easy task. Hadn't he been in an asylum recently? He closed his eyes, trying to drag the memory from his brain. A hand was tugging it back down, a hand attached to a white sleeved arm. 

Tinsley suddenly lurched forwards, toppling the shorter man off him and to the side, swiftly rolling on top. Ricky cursed in shock as his head struck the tiles on impact, the gun in his hand sliding across the floor to hit the wall. His gaze moved up to the knife still buried in the plaster. Not his knife. It wasn't his knife. It was C.C. Tinsley's knife. He'd taken it only a few nights ago when he- When they- What had they been doing?

Tinsley was staring down at him, a puzzled look on his face. Crazy Ricky was frightening, but Quiet Ricky was just unnerving. He simply stared at the knife in the wall. He didn't make any move to try and get it. He just stared. Tinsley found himself staring too.

"That's my knife," he finally said, the statement hanging in the air. 

"I don't know why I have it."

The silence went on for a few minutes as they both tried to piece together their respective memories. Tinsley had a hand on each of Ricky's shoulders, but the man wasn't struggling to get up.

"Pennhurst," said Ricky, his eyes widening. "Pennhurst Asylum."

Tinsley visibly bristled at the words; they made his heart clench with fear. "What about it? What?" 

"I was there." Ricky slowly sat up, surprised that the PI even let him. "We were there. I went there because you were there."

Tinsley's face was as pale as his kitchen floor. "I don't understand."

"I _heard_ you. I was there and I heard you screaming." Ricky looked panicked, his eyes wide. "I looked for you. I looked, and I looked, but I couldn't find you. I couldn't _find_ you. I tried-"

Fucking hell. He was right. The kidnapping, the needle, Doctor Fear. It had all happened.

"Shh. It's okay." Tinsley found himself feeling that odd protectiveness again, like he had when he'd first let Ricky stay in his apartment. _What you and Goldsworth have isn't hate_. "We got out. Somehow."

"The people. They're- I saw heroin, and one was cocaine, and there was a woman who thought I was her mother." Ricky's eyes were terrified, his hands gripping the PI's arms. "I don't want them to get me. I don't want to go with them."

"You won't. I won't let them." He cupped Ricky's face, forcing him to look right into his eyes.  _You clean up his messes. You let him into your home when he feels threatened. You do what he says, when he says it._ "Listen to me. I can't really remember what happened. But I know that we've been drugged, or... or something. I don't know why. I only know that Pennhurst is involved. But I'll do what I always do."

Ricky swallowed, his eyes glued to Tinsley's. "What do you always do?"

"Protect you."

 

* * *

 

 

On the table in front of them was a sheet of paper, a line drawn down the middle. One side said 'truth'. The other said 'lie'. 

"Right." Tinsley tapped the pen off the table in a quick rhythm. He found it difficult to look Goldsworth in the eye; they had just tried to murder each other, after all. The knife was still buried in the wall a few feet away. "Right, let's see what we got here."

It had gotten increasingly obvious that their minds had been messed with. Whatever drug they'd been given, it had altered their memories to fit whatever Fear had wanted them to. Ricky had been convinced that Tinsley was going to break their deal, and report him to the police, give away everything that they'd been hiding up to this point. 

"That's a lie," said Tinsley, scribbling down a summary of the fake memory in the appropriate column. "I was pretty sure you were coming here to kill me."

"Lie," confirmed Ricky, sitting in the chair beside him. "I came here because I thought you were gonna call the cops on me."

"Right, so that fits together." Tinsley ran a hand through his hair as he leaned on the tabletop. "You put that knife in my door? With the note?"

"No, that's a lie."

"Ah. Okay." 

"You'd been following me before we met in that subway station?"

Tinsley paused, the pen in mid-air over the paper. He could feel Ricky's eyes on him. Waiting for him to react.

"You were there that night to put me away?" continued Ricky quietly, moving forwards so that he could see Tinsley's face more clearly. "But when you fucked up and killed that woman, you were going to try and pin her death on me?"

The PI nodded slowly. "That's... That's the truth."

Ricky sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Why."

"I didn't really have- I didn't know what else to do!" Tinsley turned in his chair to face him, one arm resting on the table. "Fine. Look, I'll tell you why I killed her. I'll tell you!"

"Then spit it out, Tinsley!"

"She lived in your building, okay? I had been there that night to arrest you, as you know. I got the apartment number wrong. I went to the apartment below yours." His voice was clipped, each word sharper than the last. "I fucking messed up. She didn't answer the door. I went in, she had headphones on, she walked into the room, I got a shock. I just- I just shot her. She was dying. I didn't do it on purpose. But I didn't want to lose my job. So- So I decided to just-" 

"Kill her and pin the murder on me." Ricky tilted his head slightly to one side, a slight smirk on his face. "You're almost as bad as I am."

Tinsley glowered at him. "Don't."

"How long had you been on my case?"

The PI shrugged, breaking eye contact. "A year. Maybe two."

"We're talking the whole truth and nothing but the truth here, aren't we?"

A pause. "Six years."

" _Six_." Ricky laughed, slapping the table. "And you never caught me?"

 _You're much better at hiding your obsession_. _Or perhaps fascination is more accurate?_ Fear's words echoed in his head. "You weren't as careless back then."

"I was pretty careless, Tinsley. Come on. Why did you never come after me?"

The PI shrugged again, trying to appear nonchalant. "No reason. Just stuff."

Ricky gave him an odd look, one eyebrow raised. He leaned forwards, taking the pen from Tinsley's hand, before writing 'no reason. just stuff' in the column under 'lie'. Tinsley snatched the pen back, ignoring the grin on Goldsworth's face as he scribbled over the words.

"Come on, C.C. I thought we were done with lies."

Tinsley placed the pen down on the table, staring at Ricky. "Let me ask you a question first."

"Hit me."

"Why did you come to the asylum to get me?"

Ricky's grin faltered for a second. "I didn't do it for you."

"I thought we were done with lies," said Tinsley wryly, crossing his legs as he leaned back in the chair. "Just tell me."

Goldsworth held the PI's gaze, unsure of how to reply. "I said I didn't do it for you. That's not a lie."

Tinsley gave him an amused look, allowing the silence to drag on for a moment. Ricky could feel the heat rising to his face, his fists clenched in his hoodie pockets. What a smarmy son of a bitch. 

"If you insist," said Tinsley eventually, his tone making it obvious what his true thoughts were. "Did Fear drop any hints to you?"

Ricky shook his head. "No. Just fucked me around a bit."

"Yeah. Same."

"Yeah... I could hear you." Ricky hesitated before continuing. "What did he do to you?"

"I don't know." Tinsley rolled up his sleeve, looking at the small indent where the needle had gone. "He put something in me. He said it was 'new'. And then I just saw shit. It was like I was reliving the worst parts of my life. Which you frequently featured in, by the way."

"Guest starring Ricky Goldsworth." The man laughed, a bright sound in the dark situation. "I love it."

"You're a weird man, Goldsworth." Tinsley gestured at him with the pen. "How'd you even get into the place?"

"Underground tunnels."

"Which you knew about how?"

"You left your laptop on, Tinsley."

"You looked at my shit?"

Ricky shrugged. "This guy said you were helping him find his son, so I offered to go in and check if you were home."

"Yeah, but you knew I wasn't home."

"I was pissed. I was gonna trash the place a bit. You'd just bailed on me, dude."

Tinsley rolled his eyes. "Oh, alright. This was _after_ you threw yourself from the fire escape."

Ricky's face brightened. "You saw that?"

"Yeah, I saw it."

"It was cool, right?"

Tinsley failed to keep the amused smile from his face. "Yeah. It was pretty cool." He was beginning to like seeing the man smiling. It was a nice smile. Sunshine in a gesture. "Who was this guy looking for me?"

"Micky? Mikey? Something like that."

"Michael?"

"Yeah, it was that."

Tinsley sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his weary face. "Lovely. He's not going to like what's going on in Pennhurst. Whatever _is_ going on."

"An asylum that's not an asylum run by a doctor that's not a doctor who is giving all the patients hardcore drugs. Oh, and the doctor's name is Doctor." Ricky rolled his eyes. "That's even stupider than C.C."

"You still haven't guessed my name?" asked Tinsley, raising an eyebrow. 

Ricky looked thoughtful for a moment. "Captain Crunch?"

"Yeah. My name's Captain Crunch." Tinsley shook his head, getting to his feet. "Idiot."

Ricky watched him move to boil the kettle, a familiar setting. "So what's our plan here?"

 _Our_. Tinsley wasn't sure what he thought about that. "Police. They'll sort it out."

"No."

The PI turned to look at him, kettle in hand. "What?"

"No police."

"I won't snitch, Goldsworth."

"I said no police." Ricky's voice was icy, sending a shiver down Tinsley's spine. 

"Why not?" Tinsley didn't look away, not this time.

"Because I said so, Tinsley. Stop talking back to me."

The PI gave him a look, a strange mix of confidence and apprehension. "Don't you trust me?"

The question lingered in the air between them. Ricky swallowed as Tinsley approached him, holding his gaze. The PI placed a finger under Ricky's chin, tilting his head up to look at him.

"I need you to trust me, Goldsworth," said Tinsley in a calming, quiet voice, like he was talking to an injured dog that could snap at any minute. "Do you trust me?"

Ricky nodded, his mouth too dry to speak all of a sudden.

"That's good. For the both of us." Tinsley gave him one last searching look before turning away and continuing on with his coffee. "If you really don't want the police involved, I won't do it."

Ricky internally sighed with relief. "Yeah. I don't."

"But our plan is the same either way." Tinsley flicked the kettle on, turning back to the man. "We go to Pennhurst."


	8. Trust Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley and Ricky return to Pennhurst. Fear does what he does best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's pretty unhealthy emotionally manipulative type stuff in this chapter. maybe a trigger warning for abusive relationship?? idk really but JUST in case

Ricky followed the PI across the dimly lit parking lot to his car. The sun was beginning to set; Tinsley said this would be the best time to go. He said it would be easier to hide. He said it would be harder for anyone in Pennhurst to see them approaching. He said, he said, he said. Ricky distractedly rubbed at his chin where the PI had touched him, trying to scrub the sensation away. He could feel himself getting annoyed, not just at Tinsley, but at himself. For just... folding so quickly. For just being ready to go with whatever Tinsley said. Something was changing, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He felt like he was standing on a plank of wood that was sticking out over a five hundred foot drop. And on the other end stood Tinsley, one foot on solid ground, the other on the plank. It should be the other way around. _He_ should be the one weighing the plank down. Not C.C. fucking Tinsley.

"I'm driving," said Ricky, circling the bonnet to stand at the driver's door.

Tinsley raised an eyebrow, the keys dangling from his hand. "Huh?"

"I'm driving. Hand over the keys."

"It's my car, Goldsworth. I'm driving it."

There it was again. The resistance. "Careful, Tinsley. You don't want to make me hurt you again, do you?"

The PI stayed where he was, his eyes locked on Ricky's. "No."

"That's what I thought." He waited for Tinsley to hand the keys over. Which didn't happen.

"Why do you want to drive?"

"You've gotten very fond of asking questions, haven't you?"

"I'm just curious."

"And I'm getting pissed off. Keys. Now."

"Oh, it's your way or the hard way, is it?" Tinsley stepped back as Goldsworth moved towards him, but he still didn't hand the keys over. 

"I'll give you one more chance to give me the keys before I-"

" _Fine_." Tinsley handed them over, a bit more roughly than necessary. "Fine. Here."

"That's better." 

They drove most of the way in a moody silence, largely ignoring the other's presence. Tinsley kept his eyes on the landscape outside, the slowly thinning trees as they drove further away from civilization, the noise of other cars and people and animals slowly dwindling. Their silence got louder in retaliation. Still, he refused to speak. Ricky appeared to be doing the same. Huh. The guy was lucky Tinsley was even cooperating with him. Tinsley didn't really even  _need_ him, not necessarily. He never needed anyone. He had himself, and that had always been enough. So this haughty silence from the man beside him was very much unwelcome. 

"You're driving too fast," muttered Tinsley, staring straight ahead. "Slow down."

The car didn't slow.

"Ricky, slow the hell down. There's barely any lights out here."

The only response he got was a loud humming as the engine sped up.

"What the fuck is your problem?" snapped Tinsley, suddenly feeling very afraid. If a car came around a corner ahead of them now, they'd be paste in seconds. "Stop the fucking car!"

He suddenly lunged at the steering wheel, jerking it to the side. The car screeched to a halt. It rocked on its wheels as it spun on the tarmac, headlights illuminating the broad, rolling hillside in front of them. The sudden silence that followed was unnerving. Ricky shoved Tinsley back into the passenger seat, his eyes sparking with rage.

"You know what?" said Ricky through gritted teeth. "I think I've had it with you."

" _You've_ had it with _me_?" Tinsley laughed incredulously, eyebrows raised, his heart still racing. "Alright. Sure. You, the crazy one, has had it with me, the sane one."

"The sane one? At least I never tried to kill someone and plant in on somebody else."

Tinsley flushed, hoping the darkness helped hide it. "You do that every night."

"No, _you_ do that every night." He could see the shine off Ricky's eyes as the man stared him down. "I only ever told you to keep me innocent. I never told you how to go about doing that."

He had a point. "You're full of shit, Goldsworth."

"No. Not this time."

Tinsley turned his head away as they proceeded up the winding roads of the hill, resting his head on his hand as he stared out the window. He wasn't staring at the landscape this time. He wasn't even staring at his own reflection. No, he was staring at Ricky Goldsworth, driving _his_ car. Ricky Goldsworth, clearly being the one in charge of the situation. He thought he'd had a firm enough grasp on the reigns of this rocky relationship, but apparently not. He'd taken a risk when he'd touched the man earlier, but it had worked. Ricky was obviously craving some sort of physicality. And Tinsley intended to use this fact as much as he had to, if it meant keeping the guy under his control.

 

* * *

 

 

_**Name** : C.C. Tinsley (first name undisclosed)._

_**Birthplace** : Chicago, Illinois._

_**Age:** 31._

_**Drug(s) used:** Hallucinogen 39A (currently unnamed), liquid format._

_**Results:** Initially successful, insofar as to warp his emotions and memories. Similar to Goldsworth: trigger objects, words, and emotions revealed a fault in the hallucinations. _

_**Overall end result(s):** Full recovery of memories. Emotions still volatile._

 

_**Name:** Richard 'Ricky' Goldsworth._

_**Birthplace:** Los Angeles, California._

_**Age:** 26._

_**Drug(s) used:** Hallucinogen 39A (currently unnamed), gas format._

_**Results:** Hard to establish due to unstable nature of individual. Initial aggression. Apparent acceleration of violent tendencies. True memories triggered by familiar objects and phrases._

_**Overall end result(s):** Partial recovery of memories. Increased paranoia. _

 

* * *

 

Their cooperation was still as brittle as it always had been, apparently. This was a fact that Tinsley couldn't deny.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?"

"Yes," replied Ricky impatiently, his phone screen illuminating his face. "Stop asking me that."

"I wouldn't have to if you'd just show me the map."

"I know where we're going, Tinsley. Okay?"

The PI shrugged, reluctantly following him. "Okay."

The tunnels were dingy. Damp. Dismal. Most of all just disgusting. Water dripped from the soil that made up the roof, accompanied by the roots of whatever plants were above them, stems like slim stalactites. They brushed his head as he passed underneath them, like seaweed. Ricky managed to escape this unpleasant sensation, due to his lack of height. The only sources of light were their phones as they moved up the tunnel, the endless darkness stretching ahead. The ground was packed tight, but still slippy underfoot. Tinsley hugged his jacket tighter around him as he trudged on behind the smaller man. Why was it so damn cold?

"You sure these things are abandoned?"

"For God's sake, Tinsley!" Ricky suddenly rounded on him, jabbing a hard finger into his chest. "I said stop asking me shit!"

"Jesus, fine!" The PI watched as Goldsworth moved further up the tunnel, his phone illuminating the way. Leading. While Tinsley followed. It was highly irritating to him. "Hold on for a second." This tug-of-war was beginning to drive him up the wall, but there was no way he was cutting the rope first.

Ricky's light stopped moving. "What? What is it?"

"My lace is untied," he called, untying his lace.

"Well, tie it."

"My phone's out of battery," he lied, shoving the device into his pocket. "I can't see."

He heard Ricky mutter a curse before coming back down the path to him. "Here. Can you see now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks." He took the man by the wrist as he straightened up, hearing him inhale sharply at the touch. Tinsley was so close he had to angle his head to look him in the eyes. "Dark down here, isn't it?"

Ricky nodded, not pulling away from him. Good. A good sign. "Yeah."

"Looks like we're gonna have to share a light now," he said casually, moving his hand up to Ricky's shoulder. He made sure his thumb brushed the man's neck, resting on his skin. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No." The man's voice sounded oddly strained.

"That's good," he said, nonchalantly moving his hand further onto Ricky's warm skin. He slipped his fingers under the neck of the man's hoodie, distractedly, as if he didn't even notice. "I was beginning to think you were pulling away a bit. Even though you told me you trusted me only a few hours ago."

A silence followed. Ricky's phone screen dimmed, before blackening completely. It was so utterly dark they couldn't even see the other's face.

"You do still trust me, don't you?" 

He could feel the man's pulse racing under his hand. "I..."

"I really hope you do, Ricky. It would make me happy." He finally moved his hand up to rest along the side of Ricky's face, his thumb lightly brushing his cheek, the stubble scratching him. "It would make me happy because it means I can keep you safe. You don't want to end up in Pennhurst, Ricky. No. You want me to keep you safe, don't you?"

He could hear the man's breath, shaky and quiet. He could feel it hot on his face.

Ricky swallowed before answering; Tinsley could feel it under his fingers. "Yes." The man's voice was hoarse.

Tinsley's free hand moved to Ricky's phone, holding both the device and the man's hand. "Then let me."

Almost instantly, the phone was released into his grip. He smiled to himself as he ran his thumb along Ricky's lips.

"That's better." He could feel the heat radiating from the man's body, his skin hot to touch. "You have to put your trust in me entirely, Ricky. That's the only way I can protect you. Protect _us_. We only have each other right now. We've always only had each other."

 

* * *

 

 

_16th November._

_Strange results regarding Hallucinogen 39A. Individually, the test subjects have seemingly recovered entirely, but the drug has apparently accelerated any shared emotions between them. A dyadic result. Increased interdependence, simultaneous increase in need for control. Run test B._

_Idea for scientific name: Dyadicogen? Dyadogen?_

_Note: check public cameras A through F for battery replacement._

_F._

 

* * *

 

Ricky scratched at his neck, his face, wherever he could still feel Tinsley's touch. He scratched hard enough for it to hurt. 

He'd done it again. Just folded. The second the PI had touched him, it was as if any cooperation between his brain and mouth just shattered. He felt stupid. He felt like a stupid little idiot. Mostly, he felt angry. More than angry. Livid. At himself, at Tinsley, at everything. One step forwards, two steps back. Three steps back. Four steps back. He was slipping, sliding, balanced on the edge of a cliff, with Tinsley's hand on his shoulder, ready to either pull him to safety or push him to his death. Something was writhing around in his chest, scorching hot, threatening to burn right through his skin.

"Come on, Goldsworth." Tinsley gently but firmly took him by the arm, encouraging him to keep walking. "I think we're almost there."

He trudged along beside the PI, eyes flickering at every shifting shadow. He could definitely see someone over there. And over there. Shadowy figures behind and before them, their faces smiling, swirling like ink in water. Apart from the pale white, pouring over the tunnel floor, a thin covering.

"Stop."

Tinsley continued a few steps before doing so. "What's up?"

"Do you see that?"

The PI shone the phone light on the pale smoke. "It's probably just fog. We're in Pennhurst, remember? Weather forecast: eternal fog."

Ricky shook his head, refusing to continue forwards. "No. No, I've seen it before."

"Yeah, when we were at Pennhurst last time. You don't remember, do you?"

Maybe he was right. But maybe he wasn't. The fog was making him feel almost claustrophobic. "Tinsley..."

"Come on, Ricky. It's just fog." He walked on, the thick cloud separating before each step. "Trust me, okay?"

"Okay." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Fear

The room was a stark, blank white. Empty, but for a rusted drain in the center, so rusty it appeared a dark red. At least, Ricky hoped it was rust.

"You should have learned by now, Richard Goldsworth. You can't trust anyone but yourself." The white coated man crossed the room towards him, clipboard in hand. "You've always fascinated me. There never seemed to be any trigger for your sudden interest in killing. And the brutality of them was always so unnecessary. Really, fascinating."

He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to shake some memory loose. Where was Tinsley? Where had they been? Where was he now? It wasn't a normal hospital, if it even was a hospital. This was apparent from the fact that he was handcuffed to the table in front of him. Not standard procedure for your average hospital.

"You appear to be quite flustered." The doctor sat down across from him, an understanding smile on his face. "You're wondering where your friend is, I assume."

Ricky stared at the strange man, blinking. "Yeah."

"He's not your friend, Goldsworth. He turned you in." The doctor gave him a sympathetic look. It made Ricky feel more on edge than comforted. "The private detective. He rang us up and reported you for various murders."

"No. He wouldn't do that."

"Ah, but he did. You see, you can't trust anyone." A smile, reminiscent of a shark's. "But you can trust us. We're here to help you."

Ricky tried to make out the man's eyes behind his shining glasses. "I don't need help. I need... I need Tinsley."

"No, you don't. He betrayed you, Ricky."

"I don't believe you. He told me he wouldn't."

"Then why do you think you're here?"

Ricky frowned as he tried to recall exactly how he'd gotten into this situation; his mind felt impossibly muddled, like three boxes of puzzle pieces had been mixed together and he was trying to make one big puzzle out of them. "I don't know."

"He's given us all the murders you've carried out. Have a look for yourself." The doctor turned the clipboard around, showing the exact times, dates, and fashions of every murder he'd committed in the past year. "I wouldn't lie to you, Ricky. You're the victim in this situation."

Was he? Was he the victim? "I don't understand. I was with him."

The doctor was beginning to appear a bit agitated, frustrated almost. "Can you remember, Ricky? When you last saw him?"

All he could remember was darkness. Darkness, and the feeling of a hand trailing down his cheek. "No. No, I don't know." 

A relieved smile flickered across the doctor's face, just a brief second. Ricky blinked as he watched him; his eyelids felt like they were made of lead.

"We're here to help you, Ricky. You just have to trust us."

Trust. That word was cropping up everywhere recently. "I don't want to. I want to go home."

"You _are_ home."

 

* * *

 

 

The tiles were cold against his face, so cold and smooth they felt like they were wet. His skin felt like it was on fire, his throat was raw, his mind was heavy, weighed down with whatever comedown he was experiencing. He should've listened to Ricky. He should've _listened_. Instead, he had gotten so caught up in trying to be in charge that he'd stumbled right into Fear's hands, a deer stumbling into a bear trap. He'd told Ricky that he'd protect him, keep him safe, and he'd fucked up. Astronomically. He'd even blurted out everything he knew about Ricky's killings when they'd injected what Fear called 'thiopental' into him. 'Truth serum'. He didn't even know that shit was real, he thought it was just some Harry Potter crap. 

The door to the room opened. Immediately, Tinsley pushed himself to his feet, retreating to the opposite side of the room, steadying himself with a hand on the slick wall. Fear simply watched him, his face void of emotion. There were no black-clad people with him this time. No needles, or powders. No drugs. Just him.

"Have you figured it out yet, Tinsley?" Fear moved towards him, hands clasped behind his back. "What we are? What we do here?"

 The PI stayed quiet, but for the sound of his heavy breathing.

"You seemed to be quite smart, but perhaps I was mistaken." He shrugged. "I guess I'll just tell you, then. It doesn't matter now, anyway."

Tinsley swallowed, his mouth dry. "What have you done with him? Where is he?"

"Oh, you don't need to worry about our little Ricky anymore. He isn't worrying about you, anyway. It's quite difficult to worry about people we can't remember, isn't it?" Fear titled his head to one side, watching for a reaction from the PI. "Yes, Richard will be a big asset to me and my work here, once I've removed your influence from his mind."

For a moment, Tinsley thought about attacking him. About just going for it. He thought about it so much so that he involuntarily took a step towards the man before stopping himself. If he even laid a finger on Fear, who knew what would happen to him? But that was the question anyway, it seemed. 

"What work?" he said, his voice hoarse. "What's your 'work'?"

"Ah, yes. My work." Fear spoke as if he was having a casual conversation with the checkout person in a supermarket. "You know the way street drugs can be bad, or clean? And the cleaner the drug, the more expensive it is, the more power the dealer has? Well, that's what we do here. Cocaine, heroin, crystal meth, LSD, you name it."

Tinsley frowned at him, leaning against the wall again; it was getting harder to stand up as the days went by. "That's not a very good explanation. Maybe try again."

"We test the drugs here, Tinsley. We give them to our 'patients', and we record the results." Fear smiled a satisfied smile. "If a drug is nice and clean, we tell the relevant dealers, who give us a considerable sum of money for our research. We might even set up a link between the grower and the dealer, for a few extra thousand. If a drug is bad, however... That's not so pretty." He raised his eyebrows. "You've been lucky so far, it appears."

The PI was speechless for a few moments. "That's, uh, that's fucking disgusting."

"Yes, I suppose it is. But it pays well. Well enough that I began to develop my own drugs."

"Let me guess. The hallucinogens."

"You guess correctly. As you told me you tend to do." Fear strolled back towards the door, a casual stroll. "You came by right on time, too. A few patients, um, passed away a few days ago."

"Do you get the bodies out using the tunnels? Is that how you found us?"

"Actually, no." Fear stopped by the door, one hand on the handle. "I've been monitoring you and Ricky since you came here the last time. Set up cameras around your apartment while you were passed out. And in your car. And there were always cameras in the tunnels. Don't look so freaked out, it's not the weirdest thing I'm doing here."

"You're messed up in the head." Tinsley slid down the wall to sit on the floor, sighing wearily as he rubbed his eyes. "Jesus, what did you give me?"

"Oh, I can't remember. It's not really important, anyway." And then he was gone.

It was so quiet. An echo-y sort of quiet, like the room was underwater. Tinsley rested his head in his hand, covering his eyes against the sharp white glow of the iridescent lights on the ceiling. They hadn't let him out of the room in days. But he wasn't worried. Now he knew why they hadn't taken it off him. He just had to be patient. He just had to wait for the right time to move. Because if there were cameras in the tunnels, then Fear must've heard him say it was out of battery. Which he knew it wasn't true. And he could feel it, heavy in his jacket pocket. The weight of his phone. The weight of hope.

 

* * *

 

 

Fear went straight to the room holding Goldsworth, just the door across the hall from Tinsley. So close, yet so far. Not that either of them knew.

"How are you feeling, Ricky?"

The man looked up at him, eyes wide, an almost dazed look on his face. He must still be groggy from the Hallucinogen 39A gas. How Tinsley had managed to keep his memory intact, he couldn't fathom. It must've been a gaping plot hole made by the writer as she tried to remember what had happened so far, and now she was too tired to go back and fix it. He gave Ricky an insincere attempt at a comforting smile as he sat down across from him, like a teacher would give when sitting down to deliver the news that the unfortunate student in front of him had failed an assignment.

"You don't look too happy," said Fear quietly. "Do you want to tell me why?"

Ricky stared at him, a wary look still on his face. Despite the fact that they'd been spiking his food with doses of 39A, the man was still cautious of the place. And he was straight-up refusing to forget about stupid C.C. Tinsley. But he was getting there. Slowly.

Fear reached forwards, shaking the handcuffs lightly. "Would you like these off?"

"Well, yeah. And then I'd like to go."

"We've been over this, Ricky. You're not allowed to go until we've helped you."

Ricky shook his head. "You can't do that. You're holding me against my will. That's illegal."

"It's for your own good, Ricky. You know that." Fear raised his eyebrows at him. "You have to work with us if you want to feel better."

"Just- I'm sick of this room. I'm sick of it." Ricky squinted up at the glowing white lights. "I want to go outside, at least. Am I even allowed to do that?"

Well, why the hell not. It might even make the guy a bit more cooperative. "You know what? Sure. We have some lovely gardens here. I'll have someone take you outside now."

The man sighed heavily. " _Thank_ you. 

In came two men dressed head to toe in black, like Robocop's doppelgangers. They stood either side of him, waiting for him to stand up.

"You're not going to take the cuffs off?" asked Ricky incredulously. "I'm not going to try and fight these two guys. They're like, what, six foot-" His sentence trailed off. "Six foot something. Just like-"

"Shh, now." Fear gestured at the two men sharply. "The handcuffs will be taken off when you get back, okay? I promise. Go enjoy the fresh air."

He followed - or was, more accurately, lead by - the two men out, glancing around the corridors. Where the hell did they get all these white tiles from? They must've destroyed the white tile market when building this place.

"Why all the white?" He asked out loud.

The sudden bang from the door to their left made him yelp in shock, the two men grabbing him by the arms as he did so. The door rattled in its hinges as it another loud bang followed, like something was trying to break it down. 

"RICKY!"

The voice made him feel hot and cold simultaneously, jerking at his heart. "Wha-?"

Pounding on the door, the wood shaking. "RICKY, IT'S ME! IT'S T-"

The sudden silence that followed was worse than any screaming. Ricky stood staring at the door, heart racing, until one of the men started pulling him along the corridor. And the whole time the voice echoed in his head, bouncing around inside his skull, knocking loose images, smells, sounds; a stainless steel knife cold in his hand, an IV drip filled with a clear liquid, a steering wheel of a car that wasn't his, a subway station filled with so much dust he could taste it. A tall man, standing by the kitchen window, back to him as he leisurely made a cup of tea. 

Whatever dam was in his mind, holding back the swelling current of memories, was beginning to crack. He could feel it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i haven't posted in a few days but i actually have exams right now and my mind is mush lmaoooooo


	10. This is not an ending. This is a grand finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS V GRAPHIC VIOLENCE SO BEWARE  
> also i know im wayyyy late posting this but like... oops

The walls were cool under his fingers. He wandered down the hall, staring at the iridescent lights dotted along the ceiling. One down the end was flickering. On. Off. On. Off. It was oddly hypnotizing. Ricky found himself simply standing, staring. There wasn't much else to do. He almost missed those strange gardens, those symmetrical paths and trees and flowers, the grand foundation sitting barren in the middle. He only walked once, before he'd had the Attack. That's what Fear said it had been. He said it would happen if he ever thought about _him_. Tinsley. Ricky shook his head, trying to throw the thought out. He couldn't think about him. He wasn't allowed.

It had been a day since his walk in the garden. Since he'd heard that voice, that banging on the door that had thrown him into a panic. But true to his word, Fear allowed him to get rid of the cuffs once he'd calmed down. Now he was free to wander the corridors as he wished. As long as he didn't go down corridor C. Fear said he'd have to hurt him if he went down corridor C. Yet he always found himself coming back to it. Just like he was now.

Ricky placed a hand against the swinging doors, peering through the glass panel at the stretch of white-tiled corridor. It was late. Or it was early. It was any time, all the time. That's what it was like in here. Nothing existed but these corridors, and the doctor. Doctor Fear. An eternal presence, watching, listening, spinning riddles at every opportunity. It was like he'd made a home in Ricky's mind, and was constantly standing on the porch, watching. He was annoying, really. Ricky glanced around the corridors, noting how for once, he was alone.

"Well, it's now or never, I suppose." He pushed the door open, slipping into the forbidden corridor. 

The door squeaked shut behind him, a big red C painted in the middle of it. Ricky wandered along, hands in his hoodie pockets. Where the hell was everyone? All the doors were closed, except one. He poked his head into the room, checking for any sign of life. Nothing, except for a large window looking onto a white-tiled room. And pacing the floor, hands tangled in his mussed hair, was a familiar man. A man who Ricky was not supposed to talk about, or think about. Never mind talk _to_.

Ricky stepped into the room, moving to the glass. Was it fake? Was this another Attack? He'd seen this man in his last Attack, standing in a misty subway station.

"Tinsley," muttered Ricky, tapping the glass lightly, like he was observing an animal in a zoo. 

The man's head snapped around to look at the glass, the panic in his eyes becoming clearer as he moved closer. "Ricky? Ricky, is that you?"

Ricky didn't reply. Should he? Was he allowed? He shouldn't even be in here.

"Ricky." The PI placed his hands on the glass, his eyes flickering, as if he couldn't see Ricky standing on the other side. He probably couldn't. It was probably one-way glass. "Ricky, are you alone?"

"I- Yeah. Yeah, I'm alone." His voice sounded dry, unfamiliar to his own ears. "I shouldn't be talking to you."

"Ricky, you have to listen to me." The guy looked disheveled, his eyes wide, desperate. "You have to _listen_. I used my phone, I called the cops. You need to stop Fear from turning them away. You need to help me, Ricky. Please." He lowered his head, his voice going quiet. "If the police don't get in here, I'm done for. They'll kill me."

Ah, that could explain why the corridors were so empty. A breach. Ricky swallowed, slowly raising a hand to match one of the PI's pressed against the glass. "You... You said you'd keep me safe."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. I fucked up."

Ricky shook his head. "Why should I save you if you couldn't save me?"

Tinsley raised his head, eyes closed, looking as if he was in physical pain. "Just... Ricky. I'm begging you. Get those cops in."

"Why?"

"Because otherwise I'm going to die!" shouted the PI, slamming a fist against the glass. "For God's sake, Goldsworth, just do it!"

Ricky recoiled from the glass. "You ratted me out. You said you wouldn't tell them about what I did."

"What did you do?" asked Tinsley harshly. "Tell me what you did."

"I- Bad things." He couldn't remember. For some reason, his mind wouldn't cooperate.

"You can't remember, can you?" Tinsley took the silence as a yes. "They're drugging you, Ricky. They're the enemy, not me. I'm your friend."

"You're not my friend," replied Ricky firmly. "We weren't friends."

"No." Tinsley gave a wry smile, rubbing a weary hand down his face. He looked pale. "No, we weren't friends. Funny that you remember that."

"I don't remember a lot," said Ricky quietly. "But I remember you, C.C. Tinsley."

"Mm." Tinsley took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Get me out of here, Ricky, and I'll tell you everything you want to know. I'll help you."

Ricky stepped back from the glass, nodding. "Fine. Fine, but if it doesn't work this time, I won't help you again."

"You will." Tinsley's voice was odd, a strange mix of certainty and regret. "You always come back."

And with those words swimming around his head, Ricky headed back into the corridors.

 

* * *

 

 

Tinsley sat on the ground for who knew how long. He stared at the scabs on his hands and arms. Fear had quite literally clawed the phone from him. On a usual day, he would've fought back, but he'd been half-shot on whatever drug they'd injected into him. It had been a short struggle in the end, but Tinsley had gotten his message through. And now he just had to wait. Wait for either his freedom, or his death. Which was, in a way, freedom. 

Jesus, time was untraceable in this stupid room. He was pretty certain he was going insane in this white-tiled hell. Had he even been talking to Ricky, or had that been a hallucination? One of Fear's more cruel tricks? It felt like an hour had passed, but it could've been five minutes. Or it could've been a day.

Another while just sitting on the uncomfortable tiles, head resting back against the wall. Maybe Ricky wasn't coming back. He hadn't actually _said_ that he'd stop Fear turning the cops away. But Fear must be gone, if Ricky had been able to come in and talk to him. Unless, of course, it was a game. One of Fear's delightful games. God, what time was it?

He got to his feet, pacing over to what he was now certain was the one-way window. He knocked on it, wondering just how thick the glass was. He pulled off his tie, wrapping it around his knuckles. He'd punched a mirror a while ago, and that had hurt like a motherfucker, cutting one of his knuckles right open. But he was ready to break his whole damn hand as long as it meant he'd get out of here. 

He'd just drawn back his fist when he heard the shouts. Distant gunfire. Screaming, crying. He frowned, eyes looking up as he listened hard. Then the door was ripped open, revealing Ricky Goldsworth, splattered with blood and wielding a kitchen knife. Tinsley was undeterred. He ran towards him immediately, the sounds of gunfire getting closer and closer. It was just a corridor outside, but it was _outside_.

Ricky suddenly shoved him to the floor, spinning with the knife and striking a screaming man in a white hospital gown across the face. A patient. The blood splashed against the white tiles, a grotesque art piece. Tinsley let Ricky pull him to his feet, his legs like jelly. 

"What did you do?" yelled Tinsley, looking right into the shorter man's wild eyes. "What's going on?"

"I let the police in," grinned Ricky, playfully pointing at him with the knife. "Like you said."

Tinsley stared at him, then at the twitching man on the ground. His gaze was drawn to movement past the swinging doors at the end. It was indeed the police, fully armored, almost indistinguishable from the black-clad men shooting back. Ricky ran towards the chaos, slipping slightly as Tinsley grabbed hold of him. 

"What the hell are you doing?" shouted Tinsley, trying to pull him back. "Do you want to die?"

"I want to have fun! Let go!"

"Ricky! That's a bloodbath!"

The shorter man smiled at him, eyebrows raised. "You have no idea, dude."

The doors suddenly burst open, a cop stumbling down the white tiles, blood spurting from his visor. Not that he had use for the visor anymore, since he had no eyes. Tinsley clamped a hand over his mouth as Ricky laughed manically. More cops spilled in, black-clad men following, bullets spraying. Tinsley turned on his heel, racing down the corridor as fast as his long legs could take him. He skidded around the corner, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of more struggling individuals at the end of the corridor. The gunfire seemed to be coming from every which way, echoing throughout the building. Tinsley turned again, running away from the general violence, slamming to a halt against the fire escape at the opposite end of the corridor. He pushed it open, stumbling to his hands and knees, before straightening up. It was night time, apparently. He froze at the sight below him, for once unimpeded by fog, feeling bile rising in his throat.

The garden below was a bloodbath. Patients, police, doctors, it didn't matter. Shoot first, ask questions later, it seemed. The chorus of screams had him hyperventilating, clutching at his chest, certain his heart was going to simply explode.

"Amazing, isn't it?"

He whipped around to see Fear himself standing on the concrete barrier that separated the walkway from the 50-foot drop on the other side. He was simply observing, hands clasped behind his back. Tinsley stared at him, still breathing heavily.

"It's such a human thing to do, isn't it?" Fear could've been talking to himself for all the attention he gave Tinsley. "I've seen so many people down there kill those on their side just because they're panicking. It's funny really, how everyone is united until someone's life is threatened."

Tinsley swallowed, feeling the cool wind cut through his thin shirt. "You gonna jump or what, pal?"

"I'm actually waiting for you to push me."

The sound of a distant whirring made them both look to the sky, the lights of the helicopter slicing through the night sky.

"Ah," breathed Fear, his white coat flapping around him. "They've brought in the big guns. I always knew they would, once I got found out."

"So you always knew this was going to happen, did you?" asked Tinsley flatly. 

"Oh, most certainly. I always imagined going out in a spectacular fashion." Fear looked out over the chaotic gardens again, his face devoid of emotion. "I sometimes wondered if a normal life would've suited me. I don't think it would have. I think I would've gone insane."

"Surprise, idiot. You _are_ insane."

"Not compared to those around me." Fear turned to look at him, teetering on the railing. "Those men in there have already killed more people than I ever will, but they're blinded by the belief that what they're doing is for a 'good cause'. I know that what I was doing was for a terrible, terrible cause. And Ricky Goldsworth knows that he does what he does because he enjoys it. And if that's not sanity, I don't know what is."

"Sanity is not killing people in the first place," shot back Tinsley. "And insanity is doing shit that you and Goldsworth do."

"Insanity is a lack of reasoning, C.C. Tinsley." Fear raised an eyebrow. "Nothing to do with actions, in the end."

"Tinsley!" It was Ricky, appearing at the opposite end of the walkway to the two men. He was covered in blood, like he'd been walking in red rain. "Kill him!"

The PI stood where he was, eyes closed. He could hear people getting closer, on the roof, on the walkway, all around him. _Hands up! Put your hands up, now!_

"Tinsley, do it!" shouted the man, racing down the walkway. "Before he just gets thrown in prison for twenty years!"

The flash of metal made Tinsley freeze, watching as Fear aimed the pistol at the man running down the walkway. _I'll do what I always do. I'll protect you._ Without hesitation, he threw himself forwards, pushing Fear with everything he had. The gun didn't even have time to go off before the man plummeted over the walkway, and out of their lives. Ricky didn't stop running, going straight into Tinsley's arms. The blood on the shorter was still warm, but for some reason Tinsley didn't care. He simply held the man as cops spilled out onto the roof either side of them, guns raised, shouting for them to put their hands up or else. Neither of them did so. They simply stood, holding each other together.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tinsley stirred his coffee, standing at the kitchen sink. It was a nice night. A comfortably warm night. Every night seemed to be a nice night since the end of Pennhurst. He'd been rushed to the hospital almost instantly to get whatever drugs still in his system flushed out, seeing Ricky get pushed into the back of a police car. It was no wonder, really, seeing as the man looked like he'd taken a bath in ketchup. But Tinsley was home now, watching the television, which was still rattling on about the Pennhurst Massacre. 

"And how had such an operation been hidden right under our noses?" the reporter was asking from the gardens of the asylum. It was clear the place had been scrubbed of most of the bloodstains, and any other bloody marks. "It ended in a bang, it appeared-"

Tinsley tuned out, staring into his mug. He still wondered if he'd done the right thing. Ricky had requested him to be brought in, so Tinsley had done so, strolling through the old station that he had once been a detective at. He had no idea why he'd done it. This had been the one chance to get rid of Ricky Goldsworth, the man who had gotten him into this situation in the first place.  _Did you see this man at Pennhurst?_ they asked him, all in earnest. _Is he safe to be in public?_

"I didn't see him at Pennhurst," replied Tinsley, his eyes fixed on Ricky's. "I don't know him."

Had that been the right thing to do? Was there even a right thing to do, in the end? There had to be. Or else he was just as insane as Goldsworth, unable to apply reasoning to any of his actions. But then again, Goldsworth _did_ apply reasoning to his actions. _Fun. It's fun_. He took a sip of his coffee, staring at the television without really watching it. He knew it was late to be drinking coffee, but he didn't really sleep that much anymore. His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump. Who the hell was...

Tinsley threw the phone across the room, hard enough to leave a small dent in the wall. But he could still see the screen glowing, the message still there.

_Left a thank you gift in number 24, The Halls. Don't forget gloves, it's a bit messy! - G_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i could have credits for a fic it would be this from the time I put it at  
> https://youtu.be/aWPv6drVMIM?t=97
> 
> thanks for readin y'all. I'm currently writing a continuation and the first chapter is up yo


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